


These Violent Delights Have Violent Ends

by morethanthedark (Kayndred)



Series: In a House by the Sea [4]
Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Abduction, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Fae, Alternate Universe - Magic, Alternate Universe - Shipwreckers, Battle, Blood, Curses, Dub-con self-inflicted physical harm, Execution, Fae & Fairies, Fae Magic, Families of Choice, Fighting, Fluff, Graphic Descriptions of Physical Violence, Happy Ending, Magic Circles, Miscommunication, Multi, Musichetta is a BAMF, No body knows how to speak to each other, Panic Attacks, Past Child Abuse, Past Child Abuse - Physical, Past forced participation in executions, Physical Wounds, Pining Courfeyrac, Pining Enjolras, Prompt Fill, Quests, Romance, Schmoop, Sorry Not Sorry, Surprises!, Swearing, The Holy Artist Triumvirate, Torture, Violence, emotionally stunted boys, long walks on the beach, past Abduction, past child abuse - emotional, past child abuse - psychological, past torture - physical, physical violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-25
Updated: 2013-11-25
Packaged: 2018-01-02 15:29:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 24,160
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1058444
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kayndred/pseuds/morethanthedark
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The final piece of the puzzle has been revealed, prompting Jehan and Grantaire to explain their pasts and how they came to meet the members of Lightpeak House. Unfortunately, facing their demons is more dangerous than talking about them, and by the end of their journey everyone will be changed.</p>
            </blockquote>





	These Violent Delights Have Violent Ends

**Author's Note:**

> AND NOW, DEAR READERS: I present to you Part Three of the Fae-story Sequel. I hope you enjoyed reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it.
> 
> Titles for all three parts taken from Romeo and Juliet, Act II Scene VI - Friar Lawrence lines nine through eleven:  
> These violent delights have violent ends  
> And in their triumph die, like fire and powder,  
> Which, as they kiss, consume.
> 
> By Order of Appearance:  
> Trigger Warnings for: PANIC ATTACK  
> Trigger Warnings for: DUB-CON SELF INFLICTED PHYSICAL HARM  
> Trigger Warnings for: PAST CHILD ABUSE - PHYSICAL, EMOTIONAL, PSYCHOLOGICAL  
> Trigger Warnings for: PAST ABDUCTION  
> Trigger Warnings for: PAST TORTURE - PHYSICAL  
> Trigger Warnings for: PAST FORCED PARTICIPATION IN EXECUTIONS  
> Trigger Warnings for: EXECUTION  
> Trigger Warnings for: GRAPHIC DESCRIPTIONS OF PHYSICAL VIOLENCE
> 
> The above trigger warnings have been tagged for, but I thought it aught to be restated just in case.
> 
> This is a SPOILER, technically, but If you can’t tell, I [really like the Spiderwick Chronicles](http://images1.wikia.nocookie.net/__cb20130330201837/spiderwick/images/f/fb/93-94.jpg). Tony DiTerlizzi is one of my favorite artists.

_Felix Tholomyès, Felix Tholomyès, Felix Tholomyès._

He can’t breath for its echoes, for the churning of his stomach and the ice in his veins, his mind clouded by fear. The world is spinning and he is standing, stumbling from the circle, jerking from the reaching fingers of his friends, his family, his loved ones -  _What else will you destroy?_ Montparnasse’s words join the chant in his head and he plunges down the steps and away from the house.

The collar of his shirt burns to ash as he runs.

_Felix Tholomyès, Felix Tholomyès, Felix Tholomyès._

_What else will you destroy?_

—

Grantaire is not in the cart when they leave, and despite Jehan’s reassurances of his safety, Enjolras still worries his lip bloody on the trip home.

Jehan himself lingers briefly to discuss with the Yaga Baba the matters of payment, and, no doubt, trade. He is well versed in negotiations, after all, and knows that a staple of friendship in the South Wood is nothing but good.

It helps that he’s now indebted to them.

When he climbs back onto the drivers bench he is human looking again, all smiles and braided hair. It’s hard for Courfeyrac to reconcile the horns and the elaborate fae garb with stained-shirt, wildly patterned Jehan, but… he can see it, almost. The way his hands work as he takes up the reins, the awareness that radiates from him.

“May I join you?” He asks, patting the second seat. Jehan looks at him, curiosity plain on his face, but smiles and says, “Of course! It’s nippy out here though.”

He swings himself up onto the seat, adjusting his jacket and hat as he goes. Inside he can hear Bahorel and Bossuet arranging Feuilly while Joly and Combeferre discuss the merits of keeping him in one of the warmer winter rooms until the last of the curse is lifted.  

“Grantaire will be okay, right?” He asks as they leave the clearing the Yaga Baba’s house roosts in. There’d been a trail of burned grass that lead away from the house, but when Enjolras had gone to follow it Jehan had stopped him, a hand on his shoulder and sympathy in his eyes.

“Yes and no.” Jehan says after a long moment where he weighed his response. He sighs and rubs a hand across his eyes. “Will he return to the house? Of course. There’s nowhere Grantaire would rather be than with us.” The  _some of us more than others_  goes unsaid. “When he returns will he be happy, stable, normal? Unfortunately, no.” He looks at Courfeyrac from the corner of his eye. “Felix Tholomyès is a terror to everything and everyone he touches, and Grantaire has every right to feel what he does. If you knew him, you’d be afraid too.”

He turns his eyes back to the road, then, and Courfeyrac has to wonder how scared  _Jehan_  is. He looks in control, but Combeferre looks in control when he has to stitch up stomach wounds and reset bones, but Courfeyrac has seen his hands shake as he washes them after a surgery, has seen the blood drain from his face when he finally snaps a bone back into place.

“It sounds like there’s a story here.” He says, cautious, and Jehan’s lips twitch up. It doesn’t look like a smile at all.

“A story indeed.” He replies. “Full of magic and adventure - dramatic sacrifices and wild chases. A story that cemented friendships.” He laughs, and it’s reaching for levity but doesn’t quite make it.

“I’ve never thought of my life as a fable before, but now it feels very much like a tail you tell children to keep them from doing ill will.”

A knot of emotion curls up in Courfeyrac’s chest, and he reaches across to put his hand on top of Jehan’s.

“There will be a happy ending. I swear.” He murmurs, low and serious. Jehan looks at him, really looks at him, and his eyes grow bright and his ears turn the faintest shade of pink.

“Of course.” He says, and turns to face front again.

He doesn’t say anything when Courfeyrac scoots closer to him as they cross a bridge, and his face remains pink for the rest of the journey.

—

Grantaire is not at home when they return, nor is he home when they have Feuilly settled in the winter parlor and all the windows have been closed. He isn’t home when the candles are lit and he isn’t home when Combeferre locks the front door - the last door to be locked that night.

—

Across the beach, burning sand into glass, Grantaire curls in tighter and tighter around himself, silent as his human glamour curls away from his skin like burning parchment. His clothes are rags tossed to the wind, burned beyond repair.

Blood leaks from patches of shed scales, silver in the moonlight, clogging his nose with its thick, numbing scent.

 _Oh Grantaire_. Eponine, from the edge of the water, looking for all the world like a sailor’s dream made real.  _Grantaire what is it, what’s happened to you?_

 _No one is safe anymore_. He whispers, and the wind delivers it to her, quiet as a promise.

No matter what she says afterward he doesn’t respond, just curls tighter and tighter around himself against the wind.

Clutched in his hands, pressed to his chest, the black stone grows hotter and hotter.

—

He’s there in the morning.

Sitting on the steps to the back porch, as grey and cold as a statue. Combeferre finds him after he unlocks the doors, almost doesn’t notice him for his stillness. If it weren’t for the wind tossing his hair about - or the strong scent of burning - he might have turned around and walked back into the house.

But he does see him, their wayward friend, and he steps out onto the porch and sits down beside him with at least of foot of space between them.

Grantaire looks like a wreck.

Bared to his skin Combeferre can see that he is entirely grey, the color of slate from ears to toes. He doesn’t shiver in the dark, or even twitch, and in his stillness Combeferre can see the tiny outlines of scales that cover him. They are small, really no bigger than the head of a pin, and the first thing he thinks of is how many angels might be dancing on Grantaire at any given moment.

“When I was very young,” Grantaire says, and his voice is a shock in the cool silence, startling Combeferre, “I belonged to Felix Tholomyès. And I belonged to him until I was no longer young.”

Smoke trickles from his mouth, falling down his throat and chest until it can no longer be seen. His eyes are fire bright, liquid copper even in the dark, and his pupils are very small.

“I’d hoped none of you would ever be exposed to him.” He whispers, and when the tears start to roll from his eyes they are the color of fire. They sizzle and steam against his skin, turning the air around him warm before being swept away.

Combeferre scoots over to press his shoulder against Grantaire’s, the heat of his skin seeping through the fabric and warming Combeferre’s arm almost immediately.

“You don’t have to talk about it.” He murmurs. Grantaire laughs, twice, and there is a light in his throat that turns the inside of his mouth red and yellow in the dark.

“We’re going to have to tell you anyway.” He says, and Combeferre wishes furiously that he will never have to hear Grantaire’s voice like that again - empty and broken and torn apart, like there’s nothing in the world that can save him.

Like they are standing at the edge of a cliff and the abyss is reaching up to pull them in, and there’s nothing they can do to stop it.

—

It takes Combeferre almost two hours to get Grantaire to come inside, and when he finally does the first place they go is the shower. He turns the water on and presses his fingers to the exposed pipes, and when the water comes out it’s hot enough to make Combeferre hiss and step away from the bath.

“Sorry.” Grantaire says, his curls already hanging limply over his eyes and the back of his neck. The water turns grey as it sluices down his skin, and Combeferre is leaning closer to get a better look before he’s aware of it. It’s scales and fine ash that are mucking up the water, a silty grey tornado down the drain.

“How long has this been happening?” Combeferre asks, and Grantaire shrugs, leaning over to grab the heavy duty scrub brush with its extra-stiff bristles. He drags it across the skin between his shoulders and a flood of heavier grey clouds the water.

Combeferre stands and moves to see Grantaire’s back, his breath hissing between his teeth when he sees the grey-red under-flesh that’s been revealed by Grantaire’s cleaning. His back is spotted with it now that the water has washed away many of the surface scales, and he grabs the brush from the other man before he can do any more damage to himself.

“Tell me, Grantaire - when did this start.” And he’s not asking, not anymore - and he won’t deny the thread of fear that curls around his throat and makes him look at the open sections on his friend’s back like he’s going to drop dead right then.

“The morning after we tried to rip the curse from Feuilly.” Grantaire whispers, and Combeferre can see, just barely, the outline of his muscles through the final layer of scale-skin that separates muscle from air.

“Don’t - don’t tell anyone, please.” He mumbles over his shoulder, and his hot-copper eye is flat with the absolute nothing of it all.

Grantaire has accepted it, accepted  _his curse_ , Combeferre realizes, and that’s why it’s taking so long to kill him - it’s designed to make him suffer, and if he’s not going to fight it then the most agonizing thing to deal with would be a slow, painful death.

Combeferre trades him the bristle-brush for a soft scrub pad and leaves him to his own devices, shaken more than he’d like to admit.

He spends the next several hours in his study, gaze distant but mind racing, searching for an answer.

Dawn comes, and he has exactly what Grantaire has.

Nothing.

—

“My mother.”

They are circled up in a sitting room, coated in blankets, wielding cups of cocoa and tea. Enjolras sits beside Courfeyrac and Bahorel, exactly opposite Jehan, Grantaire and a slumbering Feuilly in the ring.

“My mother,” Jehan begins again, eyes directed to the depths of his tea, “was - and is, as far as I am aware - a very powerful elven lady. She was Seelie, and was one of a triad that held peaceful dominion over the Wooded East. Now, war is a constant between courts - Light and Dark, Small and Greater. It’s a staple of tradition. They will always be at each other’s throats for land, or a Ley Point, or just because.” He huffs a laugh, smile rueful. “I don’t remember a time when there wasn’t an altercation waiting to happen.

“At that time the King of the Unseelie - not Felix, then - wanted the East. There’s a power-hub there that is very valuable, and trades hands about twice a millenia. So he crafted a plan that would break the triad and weaken the power protecting the forest from him. He went among his many courts and sought out the greatest tricksters, the best actors, that he might wrap them in his magic for a deception. In the end he chose a pookah, one who was very old and had come from a valley by the mountains. He agreed to give this pookah considerable notoriety within the court if he were to complete his task.”

Here he pauses, and he blinks, once, very slowly. Grantaire leans into him, his skin faintly silver in the sunlight.

“So the pookah was disguised,” he continues, voice drained of emotion, “and sent to the Wooded East on Ostara, the vernal equinox. It’s a revelry to cleanse for spring and make the world ready for new life, and as with most fae gatherings there is… excess.

“My mother engaged this pookah in her revelries.” Something creeps into his voice then, something that sounds like old hurt. “She conceived with this pookah, and when it was revealed that she was with child the Unseelie King brought before her the pookah, and then, in front of the court, disguised him as the elf lord that she had bedded. She was disgraced - to have willingly bedded an Unseelie fae, to have been unable to distinguish a glamour from the truth.” He shakes his head, sipping his tea. Grantaire rubs his shoulder, and the group is a strange mixture of solemn and anticipatory. “Elves do not have children very often - they live a long time, and their children grow slowly because of this. To have a half-breed child, an Unseelie half-breed no less - there was no way she would ever be able to erase the taint it would bring her. And to rid herself of the child would be to take her own life.

“So she left, was cast out, what have you - the Unseelie King eventually got his claws into the Wooded East, and my mother would never regain her stature among the Courts. She was… unkind to me, while I was in her care, as were many of the fae that lived around us in our place of exile. When Felix came to her and offered to take me away she wasn’t the only one who was relieved.” He laughs bitterly in the silence that follows.

No one says anything, looking between themselves like they aren’t sure if what they are thinking is right, but they know they are all thinking the same thing. It makes something in Jehan bristle quickly - old anger and new frustration boiling into one aggression. He’s past it all, he doesn’t allow it to darken his days or change him for the worse, and if it weren’t for Felix being an unmitigated terror he wouldn’t even be thinking of him! He hadn’t thought of him in years, and now that he’s brought it before his friends, his family, he won’t let it change their perception of him. He is  _not a victim!_

“I was abused, if that’s what you’re wondering.” He says, frustrated, and several members of the group flinch. “She hated me for removing her from power, she hated me for reminding her of a lover that had been fake, she hated me for forever tarnishing her standing. There are no fae in any Court who are not aware of her existence and mine. They may not know our names, but I can never walk into a crowd of fae without a glamour. And Felix was no different.”

Felix had been charming, enrapturing - a warm hand in a world that had been so cold and cruel to him, so hateful for something he couldn’t control. Where his mother had been distant and his neighbors taunting, Felix had been smiles and laughter and someone who, he thought, saw passed his physical appearance and into who he was, a creature with a unique brand of magic and an eagerness to learn.

But he had been wrong, of course - behind Felix’s hand of friendship and acceptance had been pain and betrayal. Where Jehan had searched for warmth he had found only derision, and where he had expected camaraderie he received abuse.

“I was Felix’s court jester for a long time.” He continues, leaning back to survey the room. “I was entertainment because I was unique, and exotic, and it’s always easy to be cruel to those who are different.” There had been years where he’d had iron burns from the shackles around his wrists and ankles, where he’d been draped in the most elaborate iron filigree - shirts and breeches and belts crafted to look like living vines or the crests of waves, specially commissioned from dwarves across the sea.

They’d been delicate, beautiful things, and he would have admired them - from afar - had they not been a hairs’ breadth from his skin, suspended away from him by the thinnest thread of Felix’s magic.

He’d been rubbed raw and bleeding every time Felix had toted him out, iron disguised as silver and gold in the light of the Hall. Everyone had known what he’d been wearing, could feel it themselves, and they had still laughed and jeered while he’d sat at Felix’s feet, crafting what few illusions he could when encased so thoroughly in iron.

 _My pet_ , he’d been called, Felix’s hand entwined in the locks of his hair or resting on the curve of a horn, away from the iron,  _my gem. What would you be without me? Where would you go that the Courts would accept you as I do, would love you as I do?_

_Who would care for you?_

_Who would clothe you?_

_Who would allow you to practice magic at all?_

_Who, but me?_

And he’d believed him - for decades he’d believed him, as iron had burned into his skin and his magic had seared him when he used it, and there had been no light at the end of the tunnel, no saving grace. There had been one day, and then the next, and for a being whose days were infinite each minute dragged against his skin like sandpaper.

He sighs. “But his Highness has always been greedy, and soon I wasn’t enough. He had a crown, and I was his only ‘gem’ - and he wasn’t satisfied.”

The look he gives to Grantaire then - it cuts. It’s raw and full of regret but also is so, so thankful. He looks at Grantaire as if he’s given him the universe on a gold platter, fixed all his ailments and brought the world eternal peace - all the while asking for nothing in return.

“And then Felix found Grantaire, and I wasn’t alone.” Jehan murmurs, and Grantaire swallows, grips Jehan’s shoulder and looks away.

—

“I was born in the volcanic range to the South.” Grantaire begins, and he looks at each one of them in turn. “There were two dozen of us, and when I was old enough, I left.”

His first memory is of fire - the hard, hot shell of his egg cracking beneath his tiny claws and tumbling down the nest into the embers, of heat licking up his body and curling over his scales.

And that had been the first hundred years, he and his siblings writhing around each other on the lava bed, a distant parental figure dropping meat on top of them. It had taken two centuries, and he’d eaten more than half of his siblings, but eventually the nest had grown too small, and he, like his remaining kin, had taken to the sky.

“I wondered the world.” he says, looking over their heads to see out the window. The sun gilds him in red and gold, and from where Enjolras is sitting he thinks he can see the shine of grey and silver beneath his skin. “I traveled until the ends of the earth were at my feet and the last fringes of civilization were at my back. The only things that existed were the Old Ones.” He sighs, a smile curling his lips into something fond, wistful. “They were everything a fae could want.”

He had been so in awe then, so dazzled by the roots of magic, by how powerful the Old Ones had been. Grantaire had looked upon them and seen the future of the fae - magic, pure and convoluted by their pettiness, by their jealousy, by their whims. He had seen beings so bound to the magic of the Earth that their hearts beat in time with it.

The Old Ones had shared a pulse - one heartbeat, breath for breath, sensation for sensation. But they had been unique, each of them. He’d seen Life in their eyes.

And he hadn’t been able to stay with them.

“But I wasn’t strong enough - magic that pure is… hard to deal with, for those of us who weren’t born into it.” He frowns, eyebrows drawn down, despondent. It’d been like being smothered and being buzzed all at the same time. He’d had trouble breathing, his magic had gone wild, and he’d slept fitfully for days before struggling into consciousness.

“So I left, took off up north. Lived in the mountains,” he smirks, eyes sliding across the group, “terrorized the towns some, made a reputation for myself.” Grantaire’s eyes light up and he spreads his hands wide, like an advertisement. “‘ _The Terror of the Tatras_ ,’ that was my favorite.”

Jehan laughs, a huff of breath that brings a softness to Grantaire’s face.

Enjolras wonders if he’ll ever be able to have that look happen because of him.

(No, no. Grantaire is at least a liar, at worst a manipulating traitor. He shoves his longing away, boxes up his feelings. Recalls Grantaire furious and spitting fire at him before storming from the house.)

(Recalls guilt and hurt at watching him walk away.)

“I’d lived in the Tatras for an age and a day,” Grantaire is saying, leaning back, not looking at any of them, “and an age again. It was cold, but there were tunnels down into the belly of the Earth, and it was easy to use them to move around. Easy to eat too. And that’s how he found me, tucked away in the mountains.”

He’d been stealing farm animals from the villages at the base of the range for years - always careful to take the sick and old, because he didn’t eat enough to warrant taking healthy ones. It wasn’t as though their diseases could harm him, anyway, as the acids of his stomach were more than enough to eradicate any threats to his being.

Felix had come across him wrapped around the body of a crippled steer, the ground around him soggy with the snow that had melted from his heat and speckled with blood. He’d been languishing in it, allowing himself a moment of youthful exuberance. You weren’t supposed to play with your food - but sometimes Grantaire liked to remind himself of how it felt to hold squishy, oozing organs while blood dried on his scales.

It’d been a long time since he’d fought anyone.

He’d wonder if Felix knew that when the Unseelie King had come for him.

“He came with druids and warlocks and a number of other beings, pretending at making peace while they bound the land to him.” He snorts, and smoke rings float from his nose. “He’d never encountered one of my kind before, I think, so he didn’t know what to expect.”

The light in Grantaire’s eyes when he looks at them is harsh and hungry, and Enjolras shivers. This is the Grantaire they don’t get to see very often, the Grantaire who starts and finishes fights, who isn’t afraid to break bones and smash noses to make sure that the city police are distracted enough so that they can get away from protests gone awry.

“We are a greedy lot, my kin and me - and we can smell it on everyone else. It makes it easy to sniff out who wants us gone. Felix wore greed like it had been made for him, and that ruined his chances at my believing any of his promises.”

He’d extended a hand coated in gold rings and gems, and sure, Grantaire had absolutely  _lit up like the sun_ , because who didn’t love the shiny. But Felix had reeked of ill gotten goods and the oppressive stench of well-fed greed. He was a fae that was used to getting what he wanted when he wanted it, and there was a shadow in his smile that said he wanted Grantaire.

“We fought.” Grantaire waves a dismissive hand. “I wasn’t strong enough to defeat him and his goons, so they packed me up and shipped me away.”

But he’d torn them apart - eaten half of Felix’s cronies and torched a good number of the rest, because  _like fuck_  was he going quietly. He’d been a gore covered, fire-spitting mess when they’d finally bound him in enchanted chain and gotten a muzzle to cap off his flames.

 _What passion_. Felix had said, petting the long line of Grantaire’s snout. Liquid fire had dripped from the thin gaps between Grantaire’s teeth, sizzling where it pooled on the ground.  _What fury. You will make a fantastic addition to my collection, little gem_.

And then it had been six years of quiet - silence and a darkness so thick he couldn’t see through it, his magic draining from him as the temperature dropped. He slept more and more, but no matter when he woke up it was always dark, and it remained dark until he fell asleep again.

“When I finally arrived in the Unseelie Court it was to iron bindings and revelries.”

He’d been covered from nose to tail in enchanted metal fretwork, and he would have delighted in it, loved it, had it not been for the iron core threaded through it all, the chains that hobbled him, the mesh that locked away his fire.

“I was toured around, like Jehan, for years before Felix decided that he’d wowed the Court enough with my presence.” Grantaire continues. “There were others at the time - a Pheonix from the West, a Mountain Spirit from the North. We were never in the same place at the same time, but we knew of each other.”

“Right - I’d heard about Grantaire when he was first captured, but I’d never seen him.” Jehan chips in. They shoulder bump affectionately, and Grantaire’s eyes brighten.

“So when I finally got to the Seat Jehan was already there, and had been for a while. We didn’t see each other until the night of the Samhain festivities.”

It had been as though time had stopped - Grantaire, arranged ‘attractively’ on a dais on one side of Felix’s throne, Jehan on the other. He’d turned his head, the jingling of his chains and bells lost in the noise of the crowd, and caught Jehan’s eye. Something had snapped between them, a realization of sorts - someone out there was experiencing the exact same thing they were.

And that someone wanted out just as badly as they did.

“We saw each other and knew,  _knew_  - ” and Jehan leans forward in his excitement, eyes alight with remembered hope, “that together we’d be able to escape. We were the answer to each other’s questions, the key to freedom for the both of us.”

A hand rises into the air - Combeferre, looking curious and a little rueful at having to interrupt their story. “Wait, if I may ask - where was Feuilly in all of this?”

Both Jehan and Grantaire’s faces drop at the same time, falling squarely into despondent with barely a blink. Combeferre immediately feels terrible - both their stories are brutal emotionally, not to mention whatever physical abuse he know’s they are glossing over. No doubt Feuilly’s story is equally traumatic.

“Feuilly’s story is his own.” Grantaire says, leaning forward to mirror Jehan. “The details are for him to tell you. But you should know that he was - is - a Hound of the Wild Hunt, Sworn to the Master of the Hunt, of which there has only ever been one.”

“To take oneself from the Hunt,” Jehan picks up, “is one of the most difficult acts of magic to do. It’s a very ‘once of the Hunt, always of the Hunt’ affair.”

“He wasn’t treated well after Felix took the throne.” continues Grantaire, and Jehan leans back, giving the conversation back to Grantaire. He snorts in derision, “No one was, really, but The Hunt was under his thumb from the moment he unseated the old King. Feuilly was the only Hound that we know of who saw the blatant cruelty and the power grabbing Felix was doing and wanted out.

“When Felix stopped touring us around it was Feuilly who confronted us about leaving. Felix had been riding the Hunt Master for months about rounding up the neutral fae on his borders and forcing them into a tithe. He came to us after one of these expeditions and said he knew about our plans to leave - which we had, we’d been plotting for years.”

 _Years_ , Enjolras thinks.  _Planning an escape from something that terrible for years. How many years? How long did they wait in the dark, burning and chained and unable to fight back? How often were they beaten, ridiculed, forced to be entertainment?_

It makes him sick, all of it, and he gets shocked from his thoughts when Grantaire continues to speak.

“It took a long time.” He’s saying, scratching his chin. His skin flakes off a little, leaves silver slashes in it the wake of his fingers. “How many years, Jehan?”

“Don’t joke.” The other man huffs, and they trade sly looks. “Four hundred and fifty years, six months, nine days, eleven hours and twenty-two minutes. Like you’ve forgotten.”

Grantaire laughs, ignoring the shock that has rolled over the room. “I just say a long damn time,  _you_ always get into the specifics.”

“And for the longest time you knew the seconds!” Jehan says, exasperated.

“Anyway - a long damn time.” The artist says, turning back to them. “A _long_  damn time.”

A long damn time gathering the necessary items, making connections, burning skin and hair on iron chains. Felix ruled with a literal iron fist, punishing those who crossed him with painful deaths or disfiguring magic.

 _They must know that I am the ultimate law_. He’d tell Grantaire, a hand resting on the curve of his neck between two curls of silver plated iron. On the floor before them would lie a fae writhing and screaming in pain, or a pile of ash.

_They must know that I am the only one who will ever care for them, and only as long as they obey. Don’t they see? The only way for them to remain happy is to accept my love._

“We had to be careful, so, so careful. We weren’t allowed the touch the things involved in advanced spell-craft, which meant we had to ask others to do things for us. There was always the risk that they wouldn’t be true to their word, that they would sell us out to Felix for some sort of reward.

“It was tough. We all had to leave at the same time, but we had to cut Feuilly away from the Hunt.” He runs his hands over his face, propping his chin in his hands. “And that was a trial - they knew what we were doing the minute the Hunt Master lost his connection to Feuilly. So we ran.”

Feuilly had used magic, his own magic, to rip the iron from them and snap their chains, freeing them for the first time in almost a thousand years.

That is something neither of them say.

Feuilly had freed them while his magic had still been strong, while he’d still been a Hound of the Hunt, and they’d sliced away his connection to his Master the moment the bindings had fallen from them.

Under the Hill had shaken with the magnitude of Felix’s rage, a terrible roar rattling the sculpted rafters free of spiders and dirt, and the thunderous noise had barely ended by the time Feuilly, Grantaire and Jehan were scrambling up a Stumbler’s Chute and out into the dawn, springing into the air in adulation.

 _Sunlight!_  Jehan had called to him, tall and proud and at the same time small, in awe, almost cowed by the glittering, light limned nature around them.  _Grantaire, Feuilly, there is sunlight!_

And Grantaire had spit an arc of fire into the sky while Feuilly raced to the foot of the hill, Jehan hot on his heels. Behind them it felt like the Hill was heaving, the earth shaking with magical rage, and Grantaire had laid waste to the forest around the Hill in an attempt at distraction.

“It took several decades, but we found a neutral party who was willing to help us hide.” After almost eighty years of running, falling through a crevasse while shuffling blindly across the ice in the North and landing basically in the lap of their savior was more than any of them could have asked for. That their savior was a neutral party of unknown origin, who’d looked at them with strange, glowing eyes, and smiled with teeth made of glass.

 _You’re going to have to sacrifice._  They’d said, all sibilant, echoing whispers. Their skin had been cold as ice where they’d grabbed Jehan, Feuilly and Grantaire about the wrist.  _You will wear forever the mark of what you are, no matter what you choose as your skin. You will be prey to vice and sin, forever, and you will always know the longing for the Hill in your soul._  

They’d looked at them then, beaten, bloody, cold and shaken - at the haunt in their eyes and the fight tucked into the lines of their faces.

_Do you accept?_

_Yes._ They’d said.  _We accept, we accept._

There’d been a flash of light, a surge of something that felt wild, untamed, coursing through their veins, and then nothing.

“We woke up in the dirt over in Kingscrest.” Jehan says, grimacing at the memory of the affair. “And I mean literally in the dirt. It took me about a day to claw my way out of the hill.”

“It took Feuilly three.” Grantaire tuts, flexing his fingers. “We all popped up in some sort of triangle formation on this big hill, apart from each other. We had to make our way out individually.”

“And when we did - we had our tattoos.”Jehan says, peeling down the neck of his shirt to expose the complex ram’s head mirrored on each arm. “And en-laced with these tattoos was the power to hide.”

“We’d never seen a human outside of the thrall before.” Says Grantaire. “So choosing our skins was very hit and miss. It didn’t help that we were stumbling down the main street of towns, changing our appearances as we went. By the time we found you, we looked like death warmed over.”

“Constantly altering the perception of oneself will do that to you.” Nods Jehan.

And they  _had_  looked like death warmed over - dirty, bloody, scratched and bruised, they’d stumbled into the Musain in a tumble of ashen faces and wild hair. Everyone had stopped to look at them, even Combeferre and Enjolras, who had been debating a part of one of their young plans to chip away at the monarchy. The three newcomers had shifted uneasily, shedding dirt and grass and all manners of bloody things on the doorstep, before they’d shuffled forward and settled awkwardly at the bar.

Courfeyrac, who’d been taking notes on the debate going on around him, had looked up and stopped, dead still, focus narrowed to the bedraggled trio hemming and hawing over what to get at the bar. He’d stood, dropped his pencil and his paper on the table, and marched over to introduce himself to Jehan, who’d looked shocked and confused at the turn of events.

“You know the rest.” Grantaire says, waving his hand. Courfeyrac had coaxed them over to the table, carefully teasing laughter and smiles from them, and when he’d asked what their names were they’d looked between each other, cautious, and produced names that had seemed right.

Names that Felix Tholomyès and his fleet of minions hadn’t known.

“So you met us almost immediately after being changed.” Combeferre murmurs, leaning forward. His face is bright with awe and fascination. “You  _literally_  met us after ending your flight away from him.”

That makes Jehan and Grantaire blink, simultaneously, looking at each other in surprise.

“I - I guess so.” Jehan says, and their grins are soft and tentative, and it hits hard - their escape from tyranny had landed them right into the laps of the people they’d come to know as friends and loved ones.

Something warm blooms in the place below Grantaire’s heart, and he forgets, for a moment, what they are going to face - because it’d never occurred to him that so much  _happiness_  had come after the exhausting trial that had been Felix Tholomyès.

It’s Marius who breaks the warm silence that falls over them, quiet in a way he hasn’t been since they first met him, rain soaked and shivering after a rescue from a lake. He doesn’t meet their eyes, but Grantaire knows that he feels awkward about having asked Cosette about them only to find out a more detailed story after the fact.

“Why did you have to keep your names a secret?”

“Names… are power.” Jehan says, voice too light, eyes too blank. “Names are tied up in your bones, in your soul. Your name is everything you are, all the connotations associated with your existence.”

“To know a Name, is to control, totally and completely, the Named.” Grantaire murmurs, and all their eyes go to the blanket bundle between them, where only Feuilly’s slumbering face is visible. “His Highness once had a sprite who displeased him eat their own wings as punishment. He culls possible dissenters from the lot liberally - Unseelie revelries are never just  _revelries_.”

They are trials and battles and bloodshed, begging and pleading and lashing out with magic. They are the dogs of the Hunt tearing into weeping supplicants while Felix laughs and murmurs sadistic platitudes about  _love_  and  _absolute_  and  _forever_ , his latest pet a garnished mess of iron and despair.

Jehan and Grantaire shiver in tandem from ears to toes, memories too easily drawn up of watching their couriers beg forgiveness, of being forced to participate, the blood of innocents on their hands, between their teeth.

“If names are so precious, why do you say his so often?” Joly asks, confused.

“He chose a name that was ‘beautiful’,” Jehan tuts, rolling his eyes. “He wanted one that all the fae would speak with reverence and beauty. It’s very pretty, to be sure, when written in our hand. However…” He trails off, making a slashing motion with his hand.

“Of all the fae in all the courts, on all the continents, Felix is the most terrible. They sing his horrendous praises across the oceans. Oh Enjolras,” Grantaire’s tone suddenly picks up, startled into amusement, “you’d  _hate him_. He’s worse than your Royal Disgrace by far.”

It’s strained, humor only in the barest sense of the word, but it brings flickering smiles to their lips and an air of lightness to their shoulders, and that’s enough.

Just then, that is enough.

—

After the big too-do that is Jehan and Grantaire’s share session, the group splits apart. Combeferre and Joly accompany Jehan up to Feuilly’s room, talking lowly about how to keep him safe and what to give him should he wake. Bossuet grips Bahorel by the shoulder and Marius by the wrist, steering them from the room to address the afternoon chores, leaving Grantaire to splinter off into the kitchen while Enjolras and Courfeyrac troop wearily up the stairs.

Barely a half hour later, settled in Enjolras chaotically neat office, Courfeyrac throws up his hands and says, “I can’t even deal with this right now, I’m sorry, I can’t.”

Enjolras, who’d been rereading (and rereading and rereading) a letter from the far coast, looks up, pen in hand and another behind his ear, ink dripping down the edge of his jaw.

“Can’t what?” He asks, although it’s unnecessary - he hasn’t been able to do anything but replay Grantaire and Jehan’s words and expressions since he’d sat down to write out letters to let their contacts know that they no longer needed assistance.

“I can’t stop thinking about Jehan and Grantaire!” He exclaims, waving his hands around in frustration. “I mean, all the things they’ve been through. Abuse,” he starts to tick them off on his fingers, “abduction, torture, forced participation in execution? I mean, who even  _does_  that anymore?”

The thick slimy thing in Enjolras stomach, the one that’s been sitting there since Jehan started talking about his mother, grows uncomfortable prickles, like he’s swallowed a cactus.

So many things make sense now, from the very first moment Courfeyrac brought them over to their table at the Musain, bloody and dirty and uncertain. They hadn’t fit their skin at all then, blinking infrequently, moving too quickly, startling at everything. They’d talked quickly, always excited, and it hadn’t taken long to realize why. Or at least the ‘why’ that had fit better.

 _They’re addicts_. He remembers growling to Combeferre two months into their acquaintance. He hadn’t wanted to make any calls too early, had been unwilling to make assumptions. But Jehan smoked sweet smelling cigarettes like he needed them to breath and Grantaire had a bottle permanently in his hand. Feuilly had the most ‘forgivable’ vice - he drank coffee at all times of the day and night, slept irregularly and briefly, and worked furiously through his energy.

_They’re addicts and… overly promiscuous, and I don’t feel like they’re contributing, Combeferre._

Combeferre had looked between him and the three topics at their far table, a cluster of women giggling around them while Jehan smoked, Grantaire drank, and Feuilly cradled his coffee. Jehan and Grantaire did something complex with their hands and all the girls broke into excited exclamations, the two laughing uproariously.

(All three of them look at Combeferre out of the corner of their eyes, smiles loose and crooked, knowing, and Combeferre knows that even through the noise they can hear Enjolras and his comments.

Thinks  _the best lies are the ones based around truth, and anyone who tells you they don’t have a story is a liar_.)

 _Let them be_. He’d said, turned to look back down his glasses a moment before eyeing Enjolras.  _You saw them when Courfeyrac brought them in. Whatever they’ve been through warrants indulgences_.

The next meeting they had was the first one Grantaire talked during. He sat at his table with his bottle and his sketch book and looked at Enjolras like was a child with a particularly wrong idea and he needed to be disabused of it.

And then he’d ripped apart Enjolras’ argument with things Enjolras had said over the last few month’s he’d been attending, calm as you please, a sardonic tilt to his mouth and something unknowable in his eyes.

The next day he’d had new posters on his desk, excellently rendered, and Jehan and Feuilly brought four new recruits into the Musain, chatting animatedly about the Cause and what Enjolras’ long term plans for the group were.

Although the vices had never disappeared, they did peter out somewhat. Jehan took to smoking under duress, Feuilly set up a coffee schedule, and Grantaire… well he never got blackout drunk, and his alcohol disappeared into a flask in his jacket as long as he was at the Musian.

Then their operation had gotten bigger, too big for a quiet but protective cafe in the city, and Jehan, Feuilly and Grantaire had helped them build Lightpeak House.

“That was almost twelve years ago.” He murmurs, and he suddenly feels old, too old for all of this. They’d been so young then, school boys really. Combeferre and Bahorel in their second years of university, Joly in his first, Enjolras, Courfeyrac, and Bossuet in the in between phase, just getting ready to re-enter the schooling system. They hadn’t met Marius yet, but he was younger than Enjolras, who’d been the baby of the group the minute they found out Courfeyrac was a month older. And then there had been the three strangers, Grantaire looking the oldest among them with his shadowed eyes and patchy stubble, the curl of his shoulders world weary.

Now they are thousands of years old and dying in the house they helped build, and Enjolras can’t do anything.

“We’re done.” He says, pushing himself away from the desk. Courfeyrac looks like he’s relieved, and he claps Enjolras on the shoulder as he darts from the room, calling over his shoulder about cooking something big to get everyone’s mind off the sadness, don’t wait up.

Enjolras stands in his office for a long time, looking at the maps and the charts and the string and the thumb tacks - at the lists of ships they’ve destroyed and the gradually increasing impact that they’ve had on the King’s hold over trade.

At the little sketches of sea monsters in the corners of his pamphlets, the poetry written on pale paper in a tilting hand, the anniversary fan with an array of the ships they’d brought down the first year.

Spinning on his heel, he goes to find Grantaire.

(He ends up standing outside the other man’s door, knuckles hovering above the wood. He can hear the artist moving around inside, opening and closing drawers, the creak of the bed frame.

But he can’t bring himself to knock.

All he can hear are his own angry words echoing in his head - all he can see is Grantaire’s face shutting down as he spits vitriol at him. Grantaire’s greatest moment of vulnerability, and what had he done? He’d grabbed that moment of trust and opening up and ripped into it.

Chest burning, he turns away. In his room, Grantaire curls up on his bed and watches the light on his ceiling, pretending he can’t hear the retreating footsteps.)

—

The next day dawns cold and foggy, even on their hill. The grass is glazed with frost and what few leaves still cling to the distant trees are brittle and brown, ice-edged from the night.

There’s a solemn beauty in it all, the same way a woman in mourning might be beautiful - an air of distance, of untouchability hangs over landscape that isolates Lightpeak House from the rest of the world, a barrier of solitude made more apparent by the ice and frost and chill that sweeps in on winter’s winds.

Inside it is not so cold.

“You are staying behind, and that’s it!” Grantaire shouts, eyeing the members of the assembly. He’s seething, steaming, eyes already copper-hot. “Jehan and I are the only ones who could get into the Hill in the first place, bringing anyone else would be a disaster.”

“It’s not your call to make!” Enjolras spits back, and his supporters number higher than Grantaire’s, who has, at his side, solely Jehan, who looks determined to not speak out while supporting his friend. “This was an attack on all of us! We can’t just sit back and do nothing while - “

“That’s  _rich_ , Enjolras.” Snarls the fae, head tilted back and sneering. He looks imperious, foreign, and no one in the circle likes it. “Really? ‘An attack on all of us’? Wasn’t it you who accused me, alone, of being a traitor, a liar, a man of the King?” Grantaire’s eyes are slits. “Why not let me go by myself then, if I matter so little?”

Enjolras flinches and looks away, missing the bitter twist to Grantaire’s mouth as he does so. Jehan laces his fingers with Grantaire’s but says nothing, looking steadfast and resolute in his chair.

“You two can’t go it alone.” Combeferre says from his seat at Enjolras’ right, pushing his glasses up his nose to augment his flat, no-nonsense look. “Two’s a weak number and you know it. Three and multiples of three are the clinchers, and seeing as you can’t take Feuilly with you, for obvious reasons, you have to take one of us.”

Grantaire and Jehan trade a look, knowing that Combeferre’s right and hating it. Without Feuilly to complete their triangle they are knee-capped by magical law. Or rather, persuasion.

“Then who would come?” He asks, dreading the answer. “Who among you would go to see Lord Felix Tholomyès, The Blood King, in his seat of power, knowing what you know now?”

He wants their resolve to shake, he wants them to look at each other and think  _someone else will rise, so that I won’t have to. Someone else will go with them, on a journey where death is almost certain._

Instead his heart clenches and his breath dies in his lungs, because, as one, all of their friends move to join he and Enjolras in standing, eyeing him like he expected something different.

He didn’t, but he’d hoped.

“We can’t take all of you.” Jehan says, soft and obvious. That staggers them, makes them look across at each other and think.

“I’m going.” Bahorel says from his corner, looking determined, daring anyone to contest his right to go.

“I’m going too!” Courfeyrac says, stepping forward. He stares at Jehan the entire time, and Jehan squeezes Grantaire’s fingers tight and turns faintly pink.

“We can’t have four.”

“Well I’m not staying here. I can’t just do  _nothing_ _!_ ” He shouts, stepping forward, and Grantaire draws a hand down his face.

“If we take you, we have to take two more people.” And god, that sounds terrible. So many of his loved ones so close to the  _thing_  that made the bulk of his life a living hell.

“We’ll go too.” His eyes snap up, locking first on Enjolras and then Combeferre, who look at them like of course they’re going, why wouldn’t they be, it’s not really that dangerous.

Jehan hmms at his side. “So Joly, Bossuet, Marius? You’re okay with staying behind?”

“Hell no we’re not okay with it.” Joly snaps, shifting from foot to foot, arms crossed and frowning furiously. He looks like he wants to fight them over it, but Bossuet’s hand on his shoulder is reigning in his comments. “But you can’t have both med students going off into danger, and I’m not going to throw the numbers out of whack, even though seven is a _way better number than six_.”

“But you’ll stay.” Grantaire says, trying not to sound like he’s ready to beg for it.

“We’ll stay with Feuilly.” Marius says, and Bossuet nods, even though they all look ready to arm themselves and take off for the hills to fight.

It’s comforting, even though it makes him wish that he didn’t have to _know_  that they’d be willing to do this for him.

“Then we have work to do.” Jehan says, standing. He’s very business like, now that they know who’s going and who’s staying. “Because you guys are going to be huge targets if we just walk you in there, and we can’t take that risk when there are so many of you.”

“So what do we do?” Courfeyrac asks, and Grantaire and Jehan look at each other because there’s really only one way to disguise them.

“We glamour you.”

—

For Jehan and Grantaire glamours are easy - not only because they’re fae, but because they anchor their magic in themselves, rather than in some external object. It’d be pointless to craft a necklace or bracelet that masks who they are when they could just… shrug into their glamour, like a jacket.

But Combeferre, Enjolras, Courfeyrac and Bahorel were very much  _not_ fae, and that meant binding magic into something external.

Jehan ends up moving almost half his equipment into the dining room, where, again, a circle has been drawn out. It’s done in chalk, though, rather than dubious ash, and the strange, sparkling sands and stones and candles have been weighed and measured, rather than thrown together on a prayer.

“This is going to hurt.” Jehan says, efficiently braiding a length of waxy string together. He ties it off with a swift twist of his fingers. “You are going to hate me when it’s done. You are going to hate Grantaire when it’s done.”

“Hey!” Grantaire shouts from where he’s systematically lighting stones on fire, the light flaring briefly in his hands before being pulled into the center of crystal.

“Okay,  _maybe_  you won’t hate Grantaire.” Jehan says, rolling his eyes. He drapes the wax braid around Bahorel’s neck, the last one to be made, and skips off to get elaborate, dream-catcher like ornaments from the table. He attaches them with efficiency, and the magic tingles along their skin as the braid merges with the attachment strings.

“Now you’re going to have to do this one at a time, because there are no two identical fae, and that would be the easiest way to make you stick out.” He claps his hands together. “Now, who wants to go first?”

There’s an awkward moment when no one moves, each human looking between themselves like they’re seriously debating doing rock-paper-scissors to determine the first victim.

Then Combeferre, ever the saint, sighs and steps forward, and Enjolras, Bahorel and Courfeyrac look at him like he’s descended from heaven to save them from the unknown.

“What do I have to do?” He asks, and Jehan claps him on the shoulder while Grantaire grins and floats glowing crystals around his hands.

“Strip.” Jehan says, point blank and no nonsense. “No glasses, no shoes, no clothes. Also no jewelry, so rings, other necklaces, all out. That goes for all of you.”

Combeferre doesn’t hesitate, starting with his socks and working through his layers, folding his clothing neatly as he goes. “You can keep your glasses until we start.” Grantaire comments, patting his hands onto a tray of green powder. Little puffs come out from between his fingers and fall onto the back of his hands.

Nude, Combeferre steps into the circle, flesh prickling with the temperature change, handing his glasses to Enjolras as he goes.

Grantaire steps briefly into the circle, hands cupped, and tilts his head this way and that, speculative. “Close your eyes, ‘Ferre.” When he does Grantaire brings his hands to his face, spitting a spark onto the pile of powder in his hands. It fizzles and smokes but goes out quickly, and the next moment he’s blowing the dust over Combeferre. It acts like water, splashing against him and flaring briefly out before sucking back in, clinging to his skin.

“Alright Jehan, all you.” The other fae says, removing himself from the circle.

Jehan crouches down and breaths onto the candle closest to him, and a little gasp of awe goes through the group as all the candles light simultaneously.

—

Combeferre is strong, solid, like earth, and wise. Kind and just, but also fiercely protective and capable of acts of retribution that make Jehan never, ever want to be on the receiving end of his ire. He thinks green and red, of compassion and determination, steady but also changing.

When Jehan spins out his magic to touch Combeferre, he already knows what direction the glamour will take, feels it catch and cling to the necklace, spinning out and seeping into the fine dust that turns Combeferre vaguely sage colored.

He snips the magic off cleanly once the necklace tops out, and the glamour coalesces into a visual rather than a sensory image.

—

He feels like his skin just got peeled back and lit on fire, and when Jehan finally tells him that the whole thing is done he lets go of a breath that he didn’t realize he’d been holding. Slowly, carefully, he opens his eyes, anticipating the normal heavy blur that encroaches when his glasses are removed, the very same thing he’d seen before Grantaire had spread dust over his skin.

Instead everything is sharp, almost too sharp, like his glasses have been fixed and heightened into crisp perfection.

But he doesn’t have his glasses on.

The breath whooshes out of him and he takes a staggering step forward, eyes sweeping over everything in the room, all of the edges in perfect clarity, the faces of his friends, awestruck and mouths open, Jehan’s smile and Grantaire’s pleased grin.

“Slowly now,” Jehan says, waiting for Combeferre to leave the circle before reaching for him and leading him to a chair. “It’s going to take a bit to get used to, I’d imagine, but just think of it as your skin.” With a pat and an affectionate smile Jehan left him to get used to his newly perfected sight.

It takes him several moments to realize that not only is his skin no longer human toned but that he also isn’t naked. He stares at his hands, watching his fingers flex and grip at nothing. He runs the tips of his fingers over ‘skin’ that looks and feels like tree bark, admires the whorls and knots in the soft undersides of his arms, the authentic looking grain. He reaches up and touches his face, feels the grooves where there’s a flexible membrane beneath bark, the equivalent of his cheeks, allowing for jaw movement. His nose is a twist of branch, his eyebrows and hair firm but bendable bristles, slightly longer than his human hair.

What is most surprising is the way his body seems to naturally accommodate for ‘clothing’, the way a firm ridge of wood rises like a high coat collar from his collar bones, wrapping around his neck. Long, thin branches sprout from his waist, continuing the facade of an imperial gown, and he realizes belatedly that he’s sitting on them and they aren’t breaking, just bending. The longest of them arch along the floor, and he imagines that if he stands he might look very regal and tree like.

Jehan is truly amazing.

—

Courfeyrac is next, and Grantaire projects silver powder at him, already anticipating what Jehan will disguise him as.

Watching Jehan work is like watching a master sculptor or painter work, totally immersed in their project, completely isolated mentally from outside interference. He spends several minutes staring at Courf before closing his eyes and casting a hand out, directing the magic.

Grantaire can see what Enjolras and Bahorel cannot, and that is the bubble of magic at Jehan’s chest that he narrows into a fine thread, hooking it into the necklace and then wrapping around Courfeyrac’s body. It doesn’t take particularly long now that Jehan’s got a hang of it, but it is still several minutes of excited silence while they wait to see what Courf will become.

Jehan cuts the magic and the image solidifies - where Courfeyrac once stood is someone partially transparent. Grantaire thinks he looks like one of the emissaries from the Mountains, all cumulus cloud hair and lightning eyes. There are only the faintest outlines of his hands and feet, like heat waves where solid appendages used to be. His torso is a dense mass of man-shaped fog, but his major joints are little more than wavy mist.

“This is the  _coolest thing ever_.” Courf breaths, peering at his hands. He looks at Jehan like he’s given him the world, and Grantaire can read the hesitation in Jehan’s responding smile, see it in the way he tracks Courfeyrac as he leaps around the room, watching his legs disappear and reappear as he exerted energy, fascinated by the changes in density and friction that spark static where he touched down.

Grantaire knew that Jehan wanted to reach out, to accept the obvious attraction and budding love that Courfeyrac was growing for him. There were several obstacles that they would have to navigate around - Jehan’s relatively unending life span a large one - but until the whole mess with Felix it had been how to tell Courfeyrac that he wasn’t exactly human.

Now, however, the largest fear in both their hearts was whether or not they would be coming back to Lightpeak alive.

Courfeyrac’s glamour was made just as much of what Jehan knew of his personality as of his own feelings about the enthusiastic Ami being able to slip through his fingers, unable to be kept for any significant amount of time - mostly due to Jehan’s own insecurities and fears, rather than Courfeyrac’s history of lovers.

—

Enjolras is next, and Jehan lets Grantaire slap a particularly sparkly gold powder on him without comment. He does, however, move aside when Grantaire steps out of the circle, much to Enjolras and Bahorel’s surprise.

“What?” He asks, going to sit with Combeferre and Courfeyrac, who are still marveling over their fae shapes. Courfeyrac has used a basic manipulation to pull a heavy, fluffy robe of dense white air around his shoulders, and looks regal save for his face-splitting grin. “It’d be counter productive to have you all glamoured with the same magic. Grantaire gets to do half.”

“Keeps you all from being under the same Maker’s Mark.” Grantaire tuts, stretching his hands. Fire laces between his fingers, blue and red and grey-green and white, before snapping out of existence with a little sigh and a spark. “Now, close your eyes and don’t move.”

Enjolras’ eyes close as his shoulders settle into something forcefully relaxed, and Grantaire spends a minute to admire his tenacity in the face of something that had brought awe and breathlessness to the usually unshakable Combeferre.

And Enjolras naked was a plus, but one he wasn’t willing to focus on too heavily lest he end up botching the glamour.

Grantaire spins his magic differently from Jehan - naturally, considering the different bases for their existences. Where Grantaire had come from fire, heat boiled directly from the earth, Jehan’s heritage lent him footholds in earth and shadow, casual deception and life. Where Jehan’s magic bubbled until he smoothed it into a neat line, Grantaire’s sprang from his being like sentient flames, the longest spinning like a corkscrew until its tip lanced the focal point of the necklace. Contact made, the flames burst forward, enveloping the blond in a suit of flickering red, magic siphoning into the necklace and anchoring to the dust on his skin.

Much like Combeferre’s glamour, Enjolras takes more time than he would have if Grantaire had done another before him. His magic shifts and settles, changing to augment a being that doesn’t have a heart of fire, that can’t stand heat that would boil skin clean from bone.

When the magic lets out its final pulse he curls it back into himself, watching to see how Enjolras would take to the glamour.

The image that falls into place is magnificent, one that, if he survives, Grantaire will attempt to capture on canvas and paper for years, certainly.

Enjolras’ curls are gone, replaced by a thick, nebulous cloud that makes vague tentacle shapes that curl against his shoulders, around his ears and by his temples. It looks like starlight trapped in water, sparks of red, blue, green and purple flashing in and out of sight. His skin, in contrast, is night-sky black, not even vaguely blue - abyssal. Pinpricks of color - mostly shades of blue and yellow, faintly paper-white in some areas - speckle his hands and feet heavily, fading the farther up his limbs they creep.

His eyes are electric blue, pupil-less and wide, and Grantaire thinks  _oh no._

Enjolras was never meant to be a nightmare.

A literal ‘night’ spirit, a reflection of space, all stars and darkness. Real nightmares spread fear and terror, baseless panic found in the sounds of the night and shifting shadows, where the imagination ran wild with superstition. Unbound to any sort of regional spiritual demographic, nightmares had been around since man had been afraid of the dark.

“Beautiful.” He says instead, smiling, and Enjolras moves - he moves like liquid, now, too smooth and boneless to be human, which is the point, but it’s still startling.

Grantaire tears his attention from their leader as he makes his way over to the others, already attacked by Courfeyrac to  _ooh_  and  _ah_  over his flashy new skin.

Grantaire pointedly does not make eye contact with Jehan.

Bahorel stands in the circle, looking curious and a little excited, and Grantaire chooses his dust carefully. He thinks of all the times Bahorel’s fought him and fought for him, all the drinks and the jokes and the laughs. He thinks of watching Feuilly reach out to Bahorel, watching Bahorel stumble and stutter and reach back.

He gets red dust, in the end, brick colored, and when it clings to his skin it turns more yellow, faintly green at the edges.

His fire takes to Bahorel like a fish to water, and Grantaire wonders about his background, what sort of blood runs through his veins.

But that is a mystery for another day.

Bahorel’s braid disappears into a mass of quills that sprout from his head and get longer and longer, like real hair. His skin freckles heavily, thousands of black dots rising along with a fine dusting of fur. His cheekbones and nose are strikingly prominent, almost too sharp, exceptionally inhuman. He smiles, and Grantaire can see triple canines flashing in the light. He flexes his hands, clawed and bristled, and scratches at one shoulder. When he moves there’s the distinct clicking of hooves on the wood, but they can’t see what kind for the heavy feathering that flows out from his knees.

“Exotic.” Jehan whistles, clapping. “One of those deeper forest guardians, Grantaire?”

He nods, watching as Courfeyrac pokes the fluffy deer tail that sits on Bahorel’s tailbone. They both squeak when it twitches and Bahorel dances away, clicking across the floor.

Jehan navigates around the chattering group, coming to stand by Grantaire. “You okay?” His eyes are sad, regretful, and Grantaire’s smiles is frayed, but he nods anyway.

“You ready to do this?”

“Do I have a choice?” He asks sardonically, and Jehan laughs.

—

Combeferre isn’t exactly paying the most attention to Jehan and Grantaire now that they’re all disguised, and he’s drawn from Enjolras’ hair to the way light shifts through Courfeyrac to Bahorel’s quills.

That doesn’t mean that he doesn’t turn with the rest of them when there’s a veritable explosion, and suddenly the room is lit up by a pillar of fire. It swirls and writhes, contained in the circle, and he thinks that, for a heartbeat, there’s a great twisting form, a giant eye - but then the fire turns to ash, and the ash sucks itself in, condensing down into a more human shape.

What emerges from the circle is not what he was expecting.

It’s Grantaire, it has to be - Jehan is standing off to the side, whistling appreciatively. He looks like he pulled himself right out of a volcano - his skin is the color of cooled lava, veins of red and orange making it look like he could peel off a piece of him and fine active lava beneath. His hair is living fire, actively twisting and moving with the air currents in the room. Combeferre moves closer, wanting to see, to be closer, but Grantaire holds out an ashen hand and says, “No!” and he freezes.

“Tree, fire.” He says, pointing between them. His mouth is a slash of yellow, teeth bloody red, and grey smoke curls from his lips as he smiles sadly. 

“I could seriously hurt you just by being too close and unprepared. No touching unless I instigate it.”

And - yes, that makes sense, he really doesn’t want to find out how active the glamour magic is, especially if Courfeyrac can call up a cloak out of thin air.

Instead he watches as Grantaire gives a vigorous shiver, smoke and ash puffing from his skin. He waves his hands through the cloud, and, without much fanfare Grantaire crafts himself a… pillar of smoke.

“You look  _fantastic_.” Courfeyrac says, sassy, and Grantaire walks forward, and not only can Combeferre hear the rasp of the rock at his joints, but the smoke pillar moves with him, like a robe with a long train.

“Don’t bash my fae fashion, air head.” Grantaire quips, wiggling his fingers through the ash. The bottom darkens, thickens out into heavy grey, turning more and more translucent as it creeps up his body.

“We look awesome, how come you never do this for Samhain?” Courfeyrac asks, spinning. His cloud cloak breaths out around him.

“Because that would give me away.” Grantaire says, and arches an expectant eyebrow at him.

Courf looks between them, at the realism the glamours have given them - Enjolras’ night-sky skin, Combeferre’s redwood leaf hair, Bahorel’s fuzzy body, his own see-through hands.

“Oh.” He says, and they laugh while Jehan steps into the circle.

—

Jehan goes for something closer to his natural form than the dramatic change Grantaire went for. He hides his horns and his tail but leaves his face the way it is. He imbues more red into his coloring than grey, highlighting his cheeks and eyebrows. He goes darker, changing his spots and his ears but leaving his limbs long and bony. His chosen garments are a patchwork quilt of fall leaves, red and yellow and orange, the spiderwebs in his hair laced with frost.

When he steps out of the circle Grantaire tuts, says, “Jehan, Winter Edition.” And snorts smoke when Jehan sticks his tongue out at him.

Marius, Joly and Bossuet watch from the windows as they troop out, locking the doors and spreading salt and ash over the door jambs and window sills. They take a moment to look back at the house when they reach the foot of the hill, with its wide porch and its lattices and its iron roof crests. It looks like the beacon Enjolras had wanted when he’d first proposed creating a home base removed from the town - a pillar of light in an otherwise dark environment.

Hearts in their throats the group turns and walks into the forest, trying not to think that this may be the last time they see their home.

—

Jehan takes the lead in the beginning, walking North East into the wood, keeping them away from the laughter and floating lights that speckle the distance. A disquieting silence spreads around them, obvious in the way the night noise abruptly stops as they move through the trees, picking up once they have moved away.

When he stops about two miles in and Grantaire moves to the front, choosing a new direction to take, Enjolras realizes that he doesn’t actually know where they’re supposed to be going.

“Jehan.” He whispers, placing a hand on Jehan’s shoulder. The fae jerks and he draws his hand back, startled to find a layer of thick frost over the fur of his upper arm. “Sorry, shit, sorry.”

The frost melts quickly enough, but it still makes Enjolras nervous about the form he’s been given.

“What is it?” Jehan answers, voice equally low, and he falls back to talk to the blond while the others move on ahead of them.

“Where are we going?” It hadn’t really occurred to him when Jehan had been at the front, leading them one way - but now that Grantaire is taking them in a different direction he’s more than a little curious.

“The Hollow Hill.” Jehan replies. “Because places in ‘faerie land’,” he makes air quotes, “aren’t anchored to stationary landscapes, they have the ability to ‘move’. You have to get lost to find the Hollow Hill.” And that… somewhere, it probably makes sense. Right now, all Enjolras can think is that they’re getting more and more lost in the woods to go face down some fae King who probably won’t have any qualms about taking their heads.

It sounds like the plot to one of Courfeyrac’s faerie adventure-mystery books, the ones he pretends he doesn’t read.

He doesn’t want to turn around and head home, though - that is unthinkable. Feuilly is still in a magical coma, Grantaire seems to be barely holding it together, and if the way he’s seen Jehan’s clothing choices progress then the poet is also starting to feel the effects of whatever creeping curse Tholomyès sent after him.

Enjolras just wishes that he could be doing more, be more prepared, for whatever they are going to face. As it is, he knows he’s really only there because he insisted and they couldn’t have an uneven number of people at the house. He feels very useless, and it’s disheartening and nerve wracking.

When it comes down to it, what will he be able to do?

He doesn’t have an answer, and that makes him frustrated and nervous by turns.

—

Time slips away as they walk further and further into the forest. Grantaire gives up his place at the front to Jehan, who gives up his spot to Bahorel, who trades off with Combeferre.

Now, trekking through trees that probably haven’t seen travelers in a hundred years, Combeferre wonders how they’re ever going to get home. He knows how the fae realm works, in theory - knows that magic and perception hold sway over what is seen and what isn’t, and that a faerie place can be layered over any physical place they want it to be.

It doesn’t make finding the Hill any easier, in his opinion.

He’s been walking for what feels like hours when the underbrush finally begins to thin, the trees growing farther apart. The leaf litter beneath his feet is soft muffling their progress, but suddenly it feels as though a great hush has fallen over the trees.

When they break the tree line he understands why.

The field before him is vast, its end so far in the distance that he can only barely see the fuzzy shadow of the trees. The grass is tall, waist height at least, and is gilded silver by the light of the moon. It looks like an ocean, and in the distance he can see ripples where the wind sweeps the grass.

In the middle of this field is a hill, ominously large in the vacant space that surrounds it, a pale monument shrouded in grey. Atop this hill is the largest tree Combeferre has ever seen, its branches reaching up and out, sinister skeletal fingers against the night sky. He’s sure that it would take several minutes to walk around its girth, and in that moment he’s grateful that the leaves have dropped from it - who knows what sort of things would hide in the foliage at night.

The others join him quickly at the field’s edge, awed by the sight before them. As they watch lights float up from the sea of grass, bobbing and weaving on the breeze. With them comes a heavy mist that adds an eerie ethereal glow to the already surreal landscape. As he listens the faint sounds of music reach him, and all Combeferre can think is  _This would be the place where some great evil would hold a party. Of course._

“Is that it?” Courfeyrac whispers, breaking the silence. Jehan and Grantaire nod, their faces unreadable in the shadows.

“We will lead from here.” Grantaire says, almost inaudible. “We can’t guide you through the field, that’s something you have to do alone. Just keep us in your sights at all times. No matter what you do, no matter what you see or hear, do not look away, do not follow the lights. And for the sake of all that is holy, do  _not_ ,” he stares at each of them, “stray from the path. We won’t be able to help you if you do.”

They look among themselves then, because what do you say to your best friends, your confidants, your family, when they go to face a danger you can’t fight with them.

“We’ll see you on the other side.” Grantaire says, grinning, and turns to face the steadily rising mist.

He takes one step and then another, and he doesn’t look back.

Jehan smiles at them, encouraging, and pats Courfeyrac’s shoulder. “Just look at the back of the person ahead of you, and you should be fine.” He says, and then he, too, is stepping into the mist.

After that it’s - well it’s not easy, entering the thing that could lead them into a  place where they would never see their friends again, a place where they could die, stumbling and confused, following a fae light. But it’s not hard, either. It’s just walking.

Combeferre falls in behind Bahorel, Courfeyrac before him and Enjolras behind. The farther he goes into the field the heavier the mist gets, but Bahorel’s shoulders remain the same.

Around him a susarruss of noise grows, whispers of conversations he can’t understand. He catches his name though, whispered close to his ear and shouted from far away.

And then it happens - and Jehan’s warnings finally make sense.

“ _Your mother prays for you_.”  A voice says, and it feels like there are hands hovering just over his shoulders. Ice slips down his spine. “ _She lights a candle in the window. She says her prayers._ ” There’s a cold breath over his cheek. “ _Why don’t you read her letters_.”

He doesn’t look away from Bahorel’s shoulders - he  _won’t_  - but it doesn’t matter. The voices keep on, and he can’t escape them and he can’t stop walking.

“ _She buys you presents on your birthday still_.”

“ _She stands outside the post office but never sends them_.”

“ _Instead she puts them in the closet and cries._ ”

“ _And she wonders if her boy is still alive._ ”

“ _She doesn’t know if she’d rather that you were…_ ” “ _… or that you weren’t_.”

—

Stepping out of the Mist is like breaking the surface of water after being submerged for a long time. Breathing seems easier and the silence after the voices crowding their ears is ringing.

Enjolras stumbles from it with a gasp, hands on his knees and breathing heavily. Around him the other Amis are spread, leaning against each other or bent double like him. None of them had gotten lost in the Mist, but from the looks on their faces he could guess that they’d heard the same things he had.

“ _Your friends are going to die here._ ” The voices had whispered. “ _They are going to die and you will won’t be able to do anything._ ”

“ _You’re useless here_.”

“ _Your idealism can’t save them_.”

“ _You’re weak - if they weren’t involved with you they wouldn’t be in this mess._ ”

“ _He doesn’t care about you._ ”

“ _He never will._ ”

“ _And you’re never going to get to tell him_.”

He swallows down his fear and hesitation, thinking  _No, no. We are all going home_. He - they - can’t afford to be weak so close to the end, not when a real cure for what is ailing Feuilly, Jehan and Grantaire is so close.

They come together blearily, seeking comfort in the fact that they are all shaken and caught wrong footed. Combeferre and Grantaire are surveying the hill - which is considerably more impressive up close, crowned as it is with its large, gnarled tree. In the strange half-light of the moon he can see pockets of strangely shaped stones, crumbling and vine covered.

Ice clings to his lungs when he realizes that they’re graves.

“C’mon.” Grantaire whispers, and he starts up the hill, heading toward the far right. The others follow him without complaint, eager to be out from under the eye of the moon and hidden somewhere. As they go Enjolras watches him pinch sparks at specific clusters of tall grass. It takes him a few minutes to see that after Grantaire lights them briefly on fire that they scamper away, swaying like they’ve been hit with a breeze. Enjolras doesn’t remember much about stray sod, but he’s thankful that Grantaire is keeping their path clear anyway.

They make their way to a cluster of crumbling headstones, round or vaguely squarish, with a large marble angel presiding over the whole of them. One of its wings is broken, taken by time and weather and magic, but its face is mostly untouched, bowed in supplication, hands lowered like it is offering a hold to any wanting to ascend to heaven.

“Not that one.” Jehan whispers, eyes narrowed. “It’s a fake.”

It takes them twenty minutes to find the Stumbler’s Chute - the tunnel through the dirt that will take them into the halls around the revelry, where, if they were human, they would be wooed by the music and the laughter and join the party as thralls. As it is, glamoured as they are, Grantaire only reminds them not to eat or drink anything if they want any chance of getting out whole.

As Enjolras gets ready to plunge through the loamy darkness he thinks he sees the angel move from the corner of his eye - stone face tilted to look at them, eyes wide, mouth open in shock. But when he turns to look the statue hasn’t moved, and he drops into the shadows without a sound.

—

The hall they land in is encrusted with ice and gems so large Grantaire has to physically restrain himself because he  _wants_ , so badly, and it is his nature to see, to want, to take.

Jehan’s firm hand on his fiery shoulder stops him from swallowing a sapphire half the size of his fist, and, the scent of Jehan’s slightly crispy fur in his nose, he buckles back into the task at hand.

They creep down the hall, following the sounds of bell-laughter and the scent of fae food. The visceral, primal part of Grantaire strains against his veneer of civilization, hungry for a meal steeped in magic and the curl of blood around his teeth, longing to burst forth and just raze the Hill to the ground.

He wants Felix Tholomyès head on a pike, but he’d be satisfied with his ribs between his teeth.

The throne room - throne hall, throne stadium - is just as excessively opulent as he remembered it to be.

From the warren of halls that wove beneath the hill erupted The Hall, a cavernous expanse of open flooring with arches crafted from roots sprouting from the ceiling. The crowd of fae that covered the expanse of open floor was astounding, bodies clotted together in indistinct cliques, fae constantly rotating between groups.

Grimacing, Grantaire looks to Jehan, who’s analyzing the crowd with something akin to disgust lining his mouth.

“Well?” He asks. “Are you ready?”

—

Courfeyrac knew that fae revelries were expansive, festive things best left alone, but the sheer  _size_  of the Under Hill was breath-taking. The arches that supported the roof of the hall were exquisitely woven straight from the roots of the giant tree that topped the hill, swirling in complex designs that’d make him dizzy if he looked at them for too long. Long strings of enchanted lights hung from curls in the architecture, adding light to the already bright cavern.

Following a weave of roots down to the floor brought his attention back to the mass of fae before him, startling in the sheer diversity of their appearances. There were creatures with the legs of birds and hands like claws, several pairs of small wings bursting from their backs in a rainbow of colors. There was a being with a hollow back that walked by conversing animatedly with an ogre made almost entirely out of ice. Spectral figures, women that looked more tree than human, an entire posse of dog-goblins and bright nosed gnomes - he had never seen so many fae gathered in one place in his entire life.

Of course, the longer he looked, the more he saw beneath their bright lights and exotic glamours. Human thralls were bent along side sickly looking fae with gossamer wings full of holes, naked and kneeling on the stone floor. Their eyes were glazed, faces slack with adoration while their captors dangled dream-like fruit over their mouths, laughing. A ghoulish figure dragged a willowy looking dryad beneath a table, teeth like glass in the light while it cried out in fear.

Beneath the laughter and the tinkling sounds of crystals clicking together he could hear weeping, the sounds of voices caught in arguments, tones that indicated all the unsavory things that came with dark alleys and the underbellies of bars.

He felt more than a little sick, thinking that three of his friends had been trapped in this for years.

“We’re ready.” Jehan says, voice knocking Courfeyrac out of his spiraling thoughts. Jehan looks firm, unyielding, and Grantaire is casting his eyes over the group, meeting their eyes, and nodding before moving on. “Lets go.”

—

Weaving through the crowd is a dance Combeferre has barely practiced for, sometimes sidestepping, other times backing up, but always keeping Jehan in sight. He’s among the tallest of the fae in their vicinity half the time, topped only by the mountain giant in the far corner and a troop of ash tree spirits that had left behind the faintest scent of fire as they passed.

He knows that they’re heading toward the far end of the Hill, looking for some sort of throne or dais that the king will be sitting on, but everything is so  _distracting_  and  _fascinating_  - there, a woman with the lower body of a snake, her skin the color molten iron; there, a man with the limbs of a spider sprouting from his back. Satyrs, fauns, several cyclops, a centaur, beings with tentacles for hair and arms that turned into wings. He longed to reach out and touch them, all of them, to analyze what made them tick and move and exist. He wanted to _learn_.

He wanted to not lose sight of Jehan.

They made it about three fourths of the way before Combeferre starts to notice that the gazes of the crowd aren’t directed at each other but at some spectacle in front of them, voices lowered to whispers that, together, do nothing to diminish the noise. He peers around Jehan’s shoulder to see what was happening, only briefly thinking that it was unusual that Jehan had stopped walking when they weren’t exactly close to the edge of the crowd.

The sight that his eyes were pulled to told him why.

Barely twenty feet ahead of them the crowd had been pushed away, creating an open circle of grey stone before the dais they’d been looking for. Two figures cut from marble stood at its center, the light bouncing off their gold and silver filigree. They book-ended a drooping creature who had been pushed to their knees before the dais. Metal rods lead from marble hands to a heavy collar around the kneeling being’s neck, forcing its head down. Over the tide of voices around him Combeferre can hear, vaguely, the figure pleading in a tongue he doesn’t understand.

Grantaire appears at his side, a hand on his shoulder, and suddenly he _can_ , and it’s gut wrenching.

“- Your Royal Excellency, please, I did as you asked, please, please.“

Grantaire leans into his ear, fiery lips smoking, and whispers, “He was charged with killing a dragon and turning its scales to gold.” His breath heats Combeferre’s cheek like old embers. “He killed a gold dragon, as he is not magically strong enough to do the alchemy without assistance. He was not allowed the help.”

The two stone guards jerk their arms back as one, and the fae’s head tilts back at a painful angle.

“You have been tried as unfit to continue service for the King.” The statues intone, voices remarkably smooth for emerging from rocks. “As is the Rote, you shall be punished for your crimes as a traitor. So sayeth The Infinitely Resplendent and Just, King of the Unseelie Courts, both High and Low, Felix Tholomyès.”

Now Combeferre finds himself looking at the figure on the throne, curious to find out who exactly requires a title like that. What he sees, of course, is equally shocking an expected.

The creature on the dais is striking, standing out in sharp relief against a backdrop of black and tan animal furs. He looks as though all the highlights of spring and summer have come together in one image, layered evenly over skin and hair the colors of winter. He’s sheathed in pale greens, new spring greens - Jehan Greens - like fresh buds. It looks like armor, like a hundred thousand tiny green scales fashioned into a jerkin. Dragon head spaulders bloom from it where sleeves should be, long tongues wrapped down around his arms over the fabric of his tunic. The sleeves of his shirt are a darker green, each scale limned in pale yellow and red, made more striking by the threads of the same color weaving through the dragons tongues.

His pants are earthy, probably equally as fine, but Combeferre can’t see them for the boots that reach up the sitting fae’s legs to his thighs. They are soft brown-green, like dirt and moss, and the toes are topped in silver beaten into liquid slickness. He sits, legs wide and feet askew, his sharply pointed chin propped up on one long fingered hand the color of snow shadows. His cheekbones are knives beneath the tight blue-tinged drum of his skin, his nose thin and striking over lips blushed purple from pursing. His pallor is a cold contrast to the falls of straight blond hair that hit his thighs as he sits. It’s so pale a yellow that it’s almost white - corn-silk, maybe, but brighter.

Resting on his head is a crown of antlers inlaid with gold and silver, strings of gems like small raindrops dripping from its base into his hair. They make an arching vee shape across his brows, tiny blues and greens and yellows resting above the harsh slashes of his pale eyebrows.

The black, angular eyes that gaze intently at the kneeling fae are as endless as the void, and Combeferre shivers as the thin white pupil scans the face of the courtier.

He doesn’t speak as he waves a hand toward the space behind the throne, fingers with too many joints calling someone out of the shadows.

The fey who emerges is severe looking, draped entirely in night dark and navy fur, a wicked looking lochaber axe in his hands. At first Combeferre thinks that the fae makes no sound as he walks through the parted crowd, until the faint rumbling of distant thunder reaches his ears, static crawling across his skin.

“The Master of the Wild Hunt,” Grantaire says almost against his skin, lower than before. From the corner of his eye he can see that the other fae looks stricken, eyes very wide in his fiery face. “Javert.”

Shadows pull themselves apart to follow the Hunt’s Master, huge loping shapes that shiver into more human forms as they walk behind him. One is broad and tall, with long strides and heavy eyes. In contrast his three companions are much smaller - one, tall and thin, with hunched shoulders and sharp elbows, the second shorter but with a heavy charcoal band across the upper half of his face, highlighting his haunting eyes. The last is shorter and more spry, walking with a cockiness that seems miss-matched with his young face.

“And his lead Hounds, Gueulemer, Babet, Claquesous, and Brujon.” Against his side it feels as though Grantaire is barely breathing, and Combeferre wants to find Jehan and hold them both as far away as he can from the menacing figures that fling themselves onto the many steps of the dais without care. Javert is the only one who remains standing, his lochaber planted squarely before him, at rest.

He is the one who speaks.

“You have failed Lord Felix and have been branded a traitor to the Court.” Javert intones, looking down briefly before continuing to gaze across the crowd. “The punishment for traitors is death by Man.”

Grantaire turns his head against Combeferre’s shoulder, warming the wood-skin there uncomfortably, but he can’t be bothered to look away from the spectacle before him.

A third stone guard has appeared, hands cradling the handle of a crucible bubbling merrily away. Combeferre watches, struck dumb by the sheer impossibility of what is happening in front of him. Because this  _can’t_  be happening.

The first two stone guards jerk the fae’s head back by his collar, one of them grabbing him by his hair to open his mouth. The third guard steps forward, stone face blank, and extends his hands to tip the crucible forward, the metal pouring down into the mouth of the fae. He thrashes briefly against it, but the marble hand in his hair never leaves, and within seconds they release him to fall to the floor.

A trickle of liquid metal has eaten through the front of his neck, the flesh raw and ragged, and a harsh sizzling takes up residence in the air, accompanied by the thick scent of burning bodies.

“You are dismissed.” Javert says to the guards, and the stone men troop away through the crowd. On his throne Felix waves a negligent hand and the smell is gone, even though the sound remains.

 _If we had done anything, would his fate have been better, or worse?_ Combeferre thinks, in shock. The crowd around them is a mire of uncomfortable shifting and whispers until four bulky fae that look like small hills shuffle forward and remove the body.

“Who else shall speak to His Majesty?” Javert asks.

“We speak with His Majesty.” Jehan and Grantaire spit, and when Grantaire’s hands come up to his throat he realizes that the smoldering fae didn’t do it on purpose. Jehan is  _furious_.

Both Javert and Felix’s eyes snap into the crowd, pinning Jehan and Grantaire with unfathomable gazes. Grantaire jerks forward to follow Jehan when the taller fae moves through the crowd, leaving Combeferre to watch them make their way to the edge of the circle.

—

It feels like its been a lifetime since Jehan last saw Felix’s face - a lifetime spent in the sun, spent dancing, spent laughing, and now he’s been pulled back into the shade, caught in a mire of despair.

Beneath Felix’s sharp, dark eyes, all he can feel is the memory-burn of iron too close to his skin.

The smile that spreads across Felix’s lips at the sight of them is like the heart of winter or daggers made from ice off the tips of mountain peaks.

“Jehan.” He says, and his voice silences all others in the hall, every eye and ear turning to stare in wonder and trepidation as their King speaks. “Grantaire.” Jehan grits his teeth, cursing Montparnasse for giving him their new names.

His glamour peels away from him in thin ribbons, falling in a heap at his feet and dissipating into mist. Grantaire sheds his own, reverting back to the thin human guise that has turned shiny and grey in the course of the curse. It’s a wise choice, a better choice than standing as himself before the  _thing_  that went after them as bare as Jehan. His tail lashes behind him, shoulders back and chin raised, looking down his nose at Felix.

“So you have finally decided to return.” Felix says, unmoving from his slouch. Beside him Javert stands with both hands on the staff of his lochaber, coiled like a spring.

“You’ve cursed us.” Jehan replies, cutting to the chase of it. “Montparnasse came to you with Feuilly’s name and you gave him curses. We have come to demand that you remove them.”

Felix stares at him, eyes unwavering and unblinking, raking over Jehan’s body in a way that makes him fight back shudders. He hasn’t carried the weight of gilded iron on his body in a long time, but in that moment he feels like he’s still got false-silver vines crawling up his arms, turning his skin red and raw by proximity. Beside him Grantaire is stiff as a board, white smoke curling from his nose and the glow of his eyes washes his cheeks in pale orange.

The silence drags on until it is uncomfortable in the extreme, until Jehan can feel Courfeyrac fighting to fidget at his back, can feel all the stares of the assembly watching them, waiting like hungry sharks.

When Felix finally moves it’s a shake in his shoulders and chest, his eyes squinting closed, his mouth opening and his teeth flashing, head tilted back and the long column of his blue throat is exposed. He laughs, loud and uproariously, totally inappropriate for the moment, and Jehan has to fight of the desire to lunge at him and wrap his hands around Felix’s neck.

He wouldn’t make it anyway, not with Javert there, lochaber at the ready.

“Have you come,” there is a cruel glitter in his eyes, a twist to his lips that is part of Jehan’s nightmares, “to  _challenge_  this Felix’s Act of Cursing?”

The crowd  _ooohs_ , looking between Grantaire, Jehan, Javert and Felix, and of course Felix would take it as a challenge. Jehan growls mentally, furious at not being more specific with his demand - the challenge loophole should have been an obvious one.

But before he can respond - restate or reply with more carefully chosen words - Grantaire is stepping forward, smoking more black than white. “Yes.” He says, a snarl underneath the word, and Felix eyes him speculatively. “We have come to challenge your Act of Cursing.” He narrows his eyes, parsing out what he wants to say hopefully more thoroughly than Jehan did.

“Who would you have be your champion?” He asks, and Jehan can tell from the downturn of his mouth that he doesn’t like the vagueness of the statement. Kings and Queens of Court are allowed champions from other lands, other courts - champions that are not part of their courts but owe them favor allegiance, champions that are on loan from other circles. He cannot say ‘which of your subjects do you choose’ because Felix must be allowed  _full choice_ , and that knee-caps them with diplomacy.

Jehan wishes he would have kicked diplomacy to the curb, but it’s too late now.

Felix straightens and looks across the crowd, tapping one black fingernail on his lips as he contemplates. Both Jehan and Grantaire know that he has already chosen, that he knew from the moment he was asking if they came to challenge him over his decision. But half the court proceedings are made up of pomp and circumstance, the other half divided between cutting words and dancing around the specifications of their tithing or their treaties.

“Make wider the circle.” Felix commands, looking unimpressed with the slowness of his subjects. The fae in the crowd shuffle hurried back, making the ceremonial circle more like a fighting ring. “Allow those accompanying the wayward Jehan and Grantaire to step forward.”

The crowd ejects Combeferre, Courfeyrac, Bahorel and Enjolras like they don’t deserve to be touched, space expanding around them as they move slowly forward into the spotlight.

Felix looks over them, too, eyes flashing from Jehan and Grantaire to the people they have glamoured. He reaches out toward the cluster of disguised humans and curls his fingers into claws, tearing away the glamours as though it were nothing. If the way each of their friends winces and rubs their arms is anything to go by, it probably hurt more than it appeared to. They are quick to realize that they are suddenly nude before the fae of the Unseelie court, and Jehan flashes a hand out to cast the illusion of clothing over them, hyper aware of the eyes that have turned hungry once they realized that the foreign fae were actually human.

“You have brought many humans into this Felix’s domain, gemstones.” He says, using their old nickname. It sounds like something slimy now, and Jehan allows his lip to curl in distaste. “This one must wonder what merit you find in it, to dangle them before danger so.”

Grantaire scoffs a ring of mocking green smoke, cocking his head in a way that had, in the past, gotten him beaten. “Even his Royal Injustice must respect that magic of threes.” He says, arching one eyebrow. Felix doesn’t move, or respond, but his inaction is more than enough to broadcast his displeasure.

“This Felix elects the representatives of the Wild Hunt as champions.” Felix says, eyes heavy lidded and mouth flat. Around him the hounds rise and make their way down the dais to the open ring. Javert moves up the steps to stand beside Felix, axe propped against his shoulder.

“How can he choose them all?” Courfeyrac asks from where the group has sidled up behind them, wary of being too close to the crowd.

“The Hounds of the Wild Hunt are a unit of singular pieces, a hive mind.” Jehan says lowly, glaring at the line of fae before the first step of the platform, forms shivering in and out, their eyes alight with feral hunger. Jehan’s tail lashes, ears laying almost flat against his head, his eyes narrowed to venomous slits. “It’s the uninspired choice.” Louder, this time, and Felix’s eyes slide to him, one eyebrow ticking up. He says nothing, but there’s little Jehan can do and even petty insults are satisfying.

Bahorel is the next to speak, standing with his arms crossed and an air of anticipation hanging around him, despite the situation. “Who are you going to chose as champion, Jehan?” He asks, cracking the knuckles on one of his hands. Jehan can feel the desire and the hatred rolling off him, eager to have one of the Hounds’ blood on his knuckles and his own blood on his teeth.

But Jehan can’t choose him - Bahorel is human, and it would be like throwing a fish to flames, murder in the first degree. Jehan will not lose Bahorel to the beasts Felix keeps in his employ.

He’s just about to step forward, chin raised and lips just beginning to part to announce his choice, when a hot, clawed hand grips his shoulder, singing hair and turning his skin itchy.

“I elect myself the champion of Feuilly and Jean Prouvaire,” he calls, declaration echoing in the sudden stillness, “against the champions of His Royal Odiousness, The One True Maleficence,  _King_  Felix Tholomyès.” He spits out the royal marker like a curse, his tone growing in condescension and disgust with each word. Felix watches him like he wants Grantaire to burst into flames.

“Grantaire.” Jehan says, concern crushing his brows. He wants to take the words out of the air and stuff them back into Grantaire’s mouth, hide them behind his teeth and under his tongue until they turn into nothing but air.

For his part Grantaire looks firm in the face of Felix’s entourage, but resignation is stitched into the corners of his eyes, and he turns his eyes to Jehan’s face slowly. Carefully, with only the edges of his palms, he brings their foreheads together, Jehan bending down slightly to allow the contact. His vision goes fuzzy with the proximity, but when Grantaire speaks it’s clear as day.

“It’s okay Jehan.” He says, words so soft they are barely sub-audible, but they cling to Jehan’s heart all the more. “Permit this.”

And then he’s stepping away, forward into the breach Jehan thinks, not a little hysterically. Jehan ushers their friends back, out of the open circle and into the crowd, even though the fae there remain a careful distance from them. Courfeyrac laces his fingers through Jehan’s, Bahorel standing tensely behind them, using his height to see over Courfeyrac. Enjolras takes the place on Jehan’s left, Combeferre beside and behind him, watching with eyes peeled and shoulders wound tight.

“If there are no objections to the champion choices,” Felix says, not even bothering to look out across the assembly for any dissent, “then let the champions disrobe themselves of their glamours.”

Jehan closes his eyes.

—

It has been so long since Grantaire has been himself, in soul and in form. He takes a deep, steadying breath, chest expanding almost painfully, before letting the air out as a hiss of steam.

Mentally he descends into  _fire, lava, the heat of the deserts, the heart of a star. Flames so bright they burn white and blue, so hot they sear coldness into flesh, the magic of his element and himself shackled down to a banked ember - he snaps the chains with a deft hand, a thought, and he has barely a moment to look out, back, to search out his family, his friends, his loved ones, his love, and smile -_

\- before his human guise is peeling away from him like burning parchment, curling and crisping, leaving a vague grey light behind, and then heat, so much heat, more heat than he has allowed himself since a long ago battle on the snow covered slopes of the Tatras.

He breathes out.

—

Watching the Hounds disrobe themselves of their glamours is like watching shadows remove human suits. They ripple and pull and shiver until their bipedal figures are more ideas than actual images, and then they split like ripe fruit. Their magic fizzes as it vanishes, great, midnight colored dogs standing where four men had been. From between ivory teeth as long as Enjolras’ forearm loll curling purple tongues, while eyes the color of blood look at Grantaire like he’s a wounded deer.

The artist, on the other hand, looks to be in no hurry. He stands loosely inside the ring of spectators, breathing evenly. His fingers twitch, like he’s reaching for something, pulling something away - and then his back is ramrod straight, a surge of heated air bursting from his body and filling the room with dry warmth. It’s strong enough that Enjolras has to raise a hand to cover his eyes, and he can feel his hair whipping behind him.

Through his squinted, watery gaze he sees Grantaire turn to look at them, his eyes mismatched copper and blue, and the smile that curls his lips is so soft, the light in his eyes almost regretful - and Enjolras gets the gut wrenching idea that this is Grantaire, saying good bye.

Then his skin is peeling away, crispy red and black at the edges, the patches beneath shining grey. He doesn’t get a chance to look further, because then Grantaire is bursting into a pillar of flames, and it’s too bright to see anything.

—

He’s not sure what happens first - sound filtering back to him, or Combeferre grabbing his arm, shaking sensation into him. There’s a burst of sound, sudden and harsh, but what he makes out from it is more the impression of surprise and wonder, overlaying fear.

“Enjolras.” Combeferre says, close to his ear but low. “Enjolras open your eyes.”

So he does.

The entire crowd is leaning back in shock, whispering furiously, all manners of fluttering and tittering rising like a wave. Enjolras sees that at least he isn’t the only one recovering his senses - there are several fae that have their hands pressed to their eyes, or over their ears, making high pitched keening noises. Enjolras can’t pay them any mind, however, because Grantaire is no longer lit on fire or turning into a grey light.

The space where Grantaire had stood is taken up by a great mass of silver and scales, a continuous curl of sleek muscle and limbs. Several limbs. He is a tapering ribbon of silver, from the point of his many toothed mouth to the tuft of fur at the tip of his length tail. Small horns sprout behind the ridges of his eyes, ears below them, and spines run the length of his body from his nose to the base of his tail. Each of his ten - ten! - of his muscled legs are ended in vicious looking feet tipped with talons, the same, curling black claws that Enjolras has seen over the last several weeks.

Grantaire is a dragon.

He doesn’t have wings, and he isn’t green, but he is most definitely a dragon, and the tongue that he flicks out, sassily, is like flame ( _the same tongue that had dragged across Enjolras’ face in that circle of magic ages - days? - ago_ ).

Felix is looking at him like he’s going to devour him, all desire and greed. It makes Enjolras bristle, makes him want to step in front of Grantaire and block him from the King’s sight, even though Grantaire’s head could easily rest on top of his own.

Javert drops the but of his axe once on the floor, sharply bringing all attention back to Felix. The monarch looks pleased, and his Hounds shift and shuffle restlessly below him.

His voice, when he speaks, is barely above casual conversation level, but it echoes in Enjolras ears anyway.

“Begin.”

It happens in the space between one blink and the next, barely even the first beat of an inhale. He’s watching, eyes peeled for any movement on Grantaire’s part, but it doesn’t matter. Even Jehan, with his eyesight so much sharper, hisses breath between his teeth at the speed that Grantaire disappears at.

One moment he’s standing across from the dais, meters of muscle and scales, and the next he is gone, all the fae within his immediate vicinity blinking in confusion at his sudden absence.

“There!” Courfeyrac gasps, pointing to the far side of the circle, and everyone swivels to see what he’s seen, even Combeferre, who squints to draw their friend into focus.

Grantaire has whipped forward, lightning fast, and wrapped himself around the one of the two smaller Hounds, long claws digging into its shivering black fur. The hound thrashes wildly on the ground, frothing and biting at limbs just beyond his reach. Around them the other fae prance and snap excitedly, darting forward to nip at Grantaire only to back away when the sensitive insides of their mouths come in contact with his hot scales. He twists, rolling them across the ground, constricting as he goes.

The largest Hound, the one that’s most likely Gueulemer, grabs the long, silk-like fur at the end of Grantaire’s tail, dragging him back. The dragon uncoils bonelessly, allowing the smaller Hound freedom, before drawing back along himself like one of Marius curious metal coil toys, and then _springing_  at the big Hound’s face. His jaw opens wide, almost to the point where it appears to unhinge entirely, and Enjolras gets to watch as several rows of teeth untuck from wherever they were hidden against his gums.

Gueulemer has released his tail by the time he closes his jaws around the soft skin of the Hound’s throat, but the fur is long and bunches in his teeth. Blood the color of ink still drips from the wounds onto the floor, but the bone-rattling rumble that Grantaire releases easily expresses his feelings about it.

One on one fighting doesn’t last long after that - and while Grantaire may be almost impossible to see when moving, he never has time to do more than wrap himself around the torso of one of the Hounds before the other three are on him, scratching and biting. When he unwinds himself from his latest attack they spring on him, going for his soft underbelly and his throat. At one point he flings himself into the air, undulating like a snake in water, but the smallest of the Hounds - Brujon? - leaps up and grabs one of Grantaire’s smallest legs, dragging him back down to the ground.

The scream Grantaire lets out when the Hound rolls the limb between his teeth will haunt Enjolras’ memories for years.

There’s no way to tell how long it lasts - how many times Grantaire wraps himself around the neck of one hound only to be dragged off by the other three, how many times he hisses and spits, clawing at their bodies with nails like fishhooks. He does considerable damage, to be sure - Gueulemer’s face gets ravaged, one ear little more than a wiggling stub. His bottom jaw is also gored beyond human repair, the left half of his bottom lip completely torn away, revealing dark gums and the roots of teeth. For his troubles Grantaire breaks one of Brujon’s forelegs and slices off several toes from the other. To the other Hounds he divides a neck wound and several stomach gouges that bleed heavily and a bitten off hind leg, the Hound’s limb having been too close to his thrashing head during one of the beasts own attacks.

But his own damage is greater than theirs. The small leg that Brujon had grabbed hangs limply from him, dead weight as he drags himself to fight them. His face is a mass of scratches and blood, and his stomach and throat are just as bad. He’s spit fire at them only twice, and only when they were right on top of him, crowding close. It’s a miracle they’ve missed his eyes.

Babet flings him to the side and he skids several feet before rolling to a stop just shy of the edge of the circle, a smear of shining blood in his wake. He’s only a few yards from where his friends are huddling, and it would be so easy to run out to him. Enjolras has taken several steps toward him through the crowd before Jehan is calling out, “No Enjolras!” And Bahorel is grabbing his arms.

“I have to!” He spits, fighting against the other man’s hold on his shoulders. Grantaire is struggling to rise off the ground, the Hounds circling like hungry shadows, and he knows that the next time one of them strikes him, throws him, drags him anywhere it could be the end. “I have to, let me  _go!_ ”

Jehan is shouting something else, something about the line, but he’s gaining slow inches toward Grantaire and Bahorel won’t hurt him, he won’t, and it doesn’t matter if Enjolras is grabbing onto the limbs of fae around him to get leverage, he’s so close,  _he’s so close_  -

One of his feet makes it out of the circle, just half his foot really, not even the full thing, and he can feel every eye in the room on him.

In the quiet, Jehan’s desperate, “No,” is like a shout.

The fae around him surge back, breaking Bahorel’s grip on him and allowing him to stumble forward into the ring more. It takes only a moment to realise that the eyes of the Hounds are on him as well, and the closest one is turning toward him, head up and almost friendly looking - if not for the menacing glint in his eyes.

“A new champion.” Felix hisses with glee, the Hound stepping toward him and then bracing to lunge. It feels like time stretches into forever as the dog’s legs coil and then push forward, sending its body into the air. Its mouth is open, teeth flashing, and Enjolras realizes his mistake too late.

Grantaire, however, waists no time.

Where one breath the dragon is flashing his fangs at the Hounds the next he’s wrapped around Claquesous’ head like a scarf, strangling and biting all at once. He’s violent, a living saw as he tightens around the Hound’s neck until the dog goes limp. Grantaire spends a beat to rip violently into the dog’s shoulder, exposing muscle and stringy fat to the open air, before flinging the unconscious body away. Enjolras stays still, more terrified than he’ll be willing to admit in any company, but Grantaire never turns, doesn’t even look back at him - just stays before him, letting the Hounds come to him.

After that it’s a frenzy of movement, of blood and flying fur and cries of pain as Grantaire releases himself upon the pack. Ribbons of fat and muscle hang from his teeth where he rips into the hide of one attacker, bones breaking when he smashes his fore-claws into another’s chest. Enjolras can do nothing more than follow Grantaire’s movements with his own body, hands fisted so tightly that there’s the faint warmth of blood in his palm. His cheek and lip are equally ripped apart, and his breath hisses with each blow Grantaire takes.

The hounds are unconscious, bleeding heaps when Grantaire is done with them, his breath shooting sparks as he exhales explosively. He twists wildly, crazed, claws scrabbling on the floor and sliding every which way, and then he’s propelling himself like a flash toward Felix, mouth open wide and claws reaching, clearly intent on removing the sitting fae’s head.

Before anyone has time to do anything more than breath in Javert is moving, arms thrusting to the side to halt Grantaire’s trajectory. He’s halted by Javert’s lochaber between his jaws, pinning his tongue to the roof of his mouth and stopping him from breathing fire onto the Unseelie King, the Hunt’s Master bracing himself against the dragon’s momentum.

Grantaire hardly seems to notice as he gnashes his teeth and snaps his claws toward Felix, who’s barely twitched at the assault. The dragon’s body coils and uncoils behind him, like he’s in the water, and from Enjolras’ angle he can see that Grantaire’s teeth are little more than half a hand span from Felix’s face.

The King looks exceedingly pleased with Grantaire’s performance, his smile too wide to fit on a human face, the glitter of black teeth between his lips. He stares Grantaire in the eye for several long moments while the dragon foams and spits, fighting against Javert. It looks like he’s going to reach out and one run pale, four knuckled finger along Grantaire’s bloody snout.

Instead he smiles, soft as a butterflies wing, sharp as knives, and says, “You have proven yourself, champion.” snapping his fingers. In Enjolras’ peripheral, Jehan stiffens, hands going to his throat in surprise. “Remove yourselves from my sight. You are released.”

At the dismissal Javert shoves violently back, sending Grantaire into a crumpled heap in the direction of the Amis. He doesn’t rise.

After that it’s a surge of movement - Enjolras, by Grantaire’s side, hands pressed against his head, yelling something that sounds like  _no_ and  _don’t leave me_ and  _I haven’t told you yet_  - Combeferre pulling him back, Jehan instructing them on how to pick him up, Enjolras wrapping his arms around the only part of Grantaire’s body thin enough for him to do so - Jehan leading the way back out, the fae parting around them like the sea before a prow.

Then climbing back up the Stumbler’s Chute, Bahorel dragging Grantaire slowly, so slowly out into the night air, the rest of them scrambling behind him. Enjolras fists his hand in the hair at the end of Grantaire’s tail when they start through the Mist, looking back only once to see the marble angel watching them depart, standing tall, arms down, stone face toward the field.

He doesn’t think on it - lets the time fly by.

—

It seems a much shorter distance to Lightpeak on the way back, and Courfeyrac doesn’t know if it’s because Jehan is folding space to get them back in time to save Grantaire or  _what_ , but one minute he’s watching his feet as they hurry over a tangle of roots and the next they’re stumbling into the dawn, the grassy expanse of the house lawn crunching with frost underneath their feet.

Jehan looks tired, face grayed in the light, and Courfeyrac shifts his grip on Grantaire’s middle to bump his finger’s against Jehan’s furred ones. It’s a little weird, the fine, down feeling hair that sheaths his hands, but not bad-weird. It’s a sensation that makes him want to lace his finger’s through the fae’s and never let go.

“So, R isn’t exactly a traditional fae, right?” He says, fighting the weird dryness in his throat. Courf is smooth, Courf is a sweet talker, Courf has weaseled information out of less friendly people on a time limit while in the middle of unfriendly territory and not even broken a sweat - he should not be feeling like a freshly pubescent schoolboy with Jehan. They’ve known each other for years, after all, and it’s not like he’s any different than he was only a couple of months prior, when no one knew that he had horns and a tail and was really old.

Carrying Grantaire’s unconscious dragon body like a huge carpet aside, there isn’t anything different about either of them.

“No,” Jehan huffs, shifting his section of dragon on his shoulder, attempting to muster something besides frustrated desperation for Courfeyrac to see. “Not really. Terminology is vague but,” he grunts, rolls his neck so that his cheek and ear are pressed against Grantaire, apparently checking for something, “his kind live in fae territory, so that’s what we call them. I don’t know what he calls himself.”

Courf hmms, glancing back at Combeferre, who looks like he’s taking everything in and filing it away. He doesn’t even look shaken by their transition from forest to home, just squints into the dawn. Before them, holding Grantaire’s head just behind his jaw, Bahorel trots on, and Courfeyrac can’t see his face. Enjolras is behind Combeferre, silent as the grave and just as bad looking.

He hopes he’ll get to tell Grantaire what he’s been trying to since after the yelling match at the beginning of the whole thing.

—

Jehan - exhausted, drained Jehan - tells them there’s nothing to do but let Grantaire sleep it off, that all his wounds are physical not magical, that his body is already healing, it’s just slow and tired after struggling with the curse.

That it’s been a long time since Grantaire has allowed himself magic, and his body’s not used to having free reign over itself.

This makes Enjolras, already guilt ridden and frustrated about his inability to  _do_  anything, even more anxious.

When they settled Grantaire on his bed in a coil of bleeding dragon scales, Enjolras is the only one who doesn’t leave. Combeferre goes off to find his glasses and begin on the letters to their contacts, altering them to the change in their knowledge. Both he and Courfeyrac grab one of Enjolras’ shoulders and squeeze, looks of compassion and patience on their faces. Courf leaves with Jehan after the fae has washed some of the blood from Grantaire’s face, rubbing his eyes and yawning as he exits. Bahorel stays long enough to pat each of them once before leaving as well, probably to go down and see Feuilly.

Over the next hour Marius, Bossuet and Joly visit, only Joly has to turn around and walk away almost immediately at the sight of Grantaire’s blood all over the sheets and Enjolras’ clothes. Marius runs shaking fingers over the curve of one of Grantaire’s shoulders, and Enjolras remembers abruptly that Marius had known before the rest of them what their artist trio was - had asked the mermaid who had him wrapped around one scaly finger.

“What did she tell you?” He asks, voice scratchy with disuse. Marius jumps, startled, hand stilling on Grantaire’s arm, and Enjolras elaborates. “Cosette - you already knew, when Grantaire told us - I just.” He’s better than this, why is he tripping over himself? “What did she tell you?”

For a beat Marius looks torn, but when he opens his mouth Enjolras can tell he isn’t lying.

Like fae, Marius can’t lie to save his life.

“She told me that they were different. Very old, ‘like mountain roots’, I think.” He laughs, brittle, bitter, pets Grantaire again. “She said they were like refined steel, coming together to make something better than they were apart. She said I should ask them, because a fae’s existence is always more secret than not.”

He leaves soon after, a tight smile directed at Enjolras for his troubles, and all Enjolras feels is cold.

Feeling frayed and directionless he stands and wedges himself on to the bed, curling so that the majority of Grantaire’s head is pressed against his torso, hands gripping the soft hair that sprouts before Grantaire’s ears.

“You’re so frustrating.” He whispers, lips rasping over scales. “You drive me to the edge all the time, and I don’t understand how you can think what we’re doing isn’t doing to change anything. We have  _lists_.” His forehead presses against Grantaire’s.

“I shouldn’t have yelled those things at you.” A whisper this time, the ghost of a breath. “You trusted us with a secret that could cost you your life, and I accused you of being a traitor, of being uncaring of us - when the reason you hadn’t told us was to protect us in the first place.” And isn’t that a kick in the teeth. “I am,  _genuinely_  sorry, and I know that isn’t near enough of an apology for the things I said. If you were awake you’d tell me so.

“I hope, that we can still be friends, at least. Even if you don’t forgive me.”

The silence that stretches on after that is comfortable, and Enjolras knows that he’ll have to repeat the apology and more when Grantaire wakes up. He’s more than prepared, but all he had was words, and he knew how easily Grantaire could push them aside and pretend to be alright, even if he wasn’t.  _I guess for a fae, actions would mean more than words_. Enjolras thought.

Beneath him Grantaire stirs, just a huff of warm breath that heats Enjolras from stomach to heels. His head shifts in the blond’s grip, almost nuzzling, and his tail flicks briefly at the opposite end of the bed.

 _Oh Enjolras_ , whispers Grantaire’s voice in his mind, barely a breath. But Enjolras would know Grantaire’s voice anywhere, even in the strange, soft place where his voice comes through in his head.  _Of course I forgive you. I love you._

Heat rises in Enjolras face so fast he gets be dizzy with it, but that could be the butterflies in his stomach or the strange bubbly-fuzzy warmth that has taken up residence in his chest. Grantaire sighs against him again, settling, and this time he can tell the dragon is asleep because he goes limp in his arms.

Enjolras, wrapped around his head like a particularly red octopus, turns his face deeper into the smooth-soft-scratchiness of Grantaire’s scales and pretends his jaw doesn’t hurt from smiling.

—

It takes almost two months for Grantaire to heal himself, and the moment he’s mobile he drags himself down the stairs to the room Feuilly’s been kept in. Feuilly looks like death run over, but he’s awake and eating, skin returning to human normal, and Grantaire wraps him up in the folds of his scales when they sleep at night. Feuilly’s body takes less time to heal than Grantaire’s does, which Jehan explains as “Feuilly’s magic was already trying to fight the curse, Grantaire kept his from trying”. They all look uncomfortable with that, but it’s not any real secret how Grantaire feels about himself.

Time passes, though, and winter fades into spring with a chorus of bird calls and leaf buds on the seasonal trees. By the time the grass has stopped frosting over in the night both Grantaire and Feuilly are back in shape, at least within spitting distance of where they were after the wrecking of the  _Arcadia_.

A handful of days before the last week of Spring and the anniversary of ‘The Shipwreck that Started it All’ (Courfeyrac and Bahorel’s verdict), Enjolras sends a letter to Musichetta, requesting her presence at Lightpeak for the festivities. No one tells Joly or Bossuet, who blush excellently when she shows up at their doorstep on the first day of the last week, toting gifts and provisions for the coming spring, as well as her own necessities.

The two Amis trip over themselves (Bossuet more so than Joly) getting her set up in one of the guest rooms on the ground floor while Jehan, Courfeyrac, Marius, Bahorel and Grantaire place wagers on which one of them she’ll make the first move on (because if anyone in that situation is going to make romantic advances, they sure as hell know it won’t be one of their own).

Day three finds the three of them curled up on the porch swing in the back, Musichetta playing couch to two of their cats, Joly and Bossuet wrapped around her, talking in low, sweet voices.

Marius - the one who finds them and subsequently trips over his own feet in a hasty getaway - reports to the rest of the betting pool, who eventually muster up the nerve to ask Musichetta how she did it.

“At the same time, of course.” She says, eyeing Courfeyrac -  the groups elected representative - with confusion. “What other way would you do it?”

Whatever face he makes gets her to laugh, a sweet sound that has both Bossuet and Joly leaning around a wall to see what’s happening. She waves them away, pats Courfeyrac’s shoulder, and goes to help Joly make sure Bossuet doesn’t burn the house down while they cook.

“We are really dumb, huh?” Grantaire asks, blinking after her. Combeferre, inconspicuously seated on a chair in the corner of their sitting room, hums in well meaning confirmation.

The general happiness of the house holds over into the last afternoon of the Spring season, when the group moves themselves outside for a relaxing lunch on the grassy hills that fade into the beach. Cosette and Eponine come to the shore after the food has been doled out, and Marius, ever eager to see the love of his life, departs with a blush as red as their checkered blanket and a smile fit to split his face.

After several moments Combeferre follows him, eyes on the dark haired sea-woman in the water, very pointedly not looking back when Courfeyrac calls out loudly for him to “Make mama proud!” and descends into a fit of giggles that Jehan smiles winningly over, stealing the other man’s food.

They spread out along the beach after that - Bahorel and Feuilly walking down the sand toward a distant rock cluster, shoulders bumping and pinky fingers linked. Joly, Bossuet and Musichetta take one of their bigger umbrellas down to the sand with several towels, Musichetta dressed down to her drawers, a blouse, and a large floppy hat while her boys have donned their swim pants for the first time. They drape across each other in the shade of the umbrella, talking softly and trading kisses so sweet Jehan pretends to swoon.

Eventually they too split off, hands entwined and swinging between them, for a hill that looks out over the calm expanse of ocean, leaving Enjolras and Grantaire to man the food.

Since Grantaire’s impromptu confession the dynamic between them had shifted. Grantaire - who claimed to not remember anything after the fight with the Hounds - had fervently hoped that Enjolras would forget about his sleep-addled words and let it go. On the other hand, Enjolras - uncertain as to if Grantaire were telling the truth - held the words close to his heart even if Grantaire disowned them. He didn’t bring up, however, hoping that Grantaire would come around to it on his own time. Where previously they had been at least somewhat sneaky about looking at each other during meetings or around the house, they’d taken to blatantly staring at one another with looks so devastating both Combeferre and Bahorel had, on more than one occasion, gotten up and left the room, fed up with their friends. Because of course they were never staring at each other at the same time

Jehan, Courfeyrac, Marius, Joly, Bossuet and Musichetta made bets as to who would go running to one of their friends first. Feuilly, somewhat sympathetic to Grantaire and Enjolras feelings, gave them friendly shoulder pats and left them to it.

Left on the blanket without their friends as a buffer, Enjolras looks at Grantaire from the corner of his eye, only to find Grantaire doing the exact same thing. They blush in tandem and quickly turn away from each other, Grantaire coughing into his fist while Enjolras chews on the inside of his cheek.

It’s ridiculous.

He spins back around to look Grantaire in the eye, catching the other man with his mouth half open like he’s going to speak. Hopeful, Enjolras starts talking.

“Were you going to - ?”

“No - I mean yes, but you can - “

“No, no, you were going to speak first, it’s only polite.”

“It isn’t anything, really.”

“You can - “

“No, go ahead.”

Enjolras frowns, watching as Grantaire’s mouth twitches in that way that broadcasts his unwillingness to go on. He wants to know what Grantaire was going to say,  _has to know_ , but if the artist is going to be stubborn about it - well it’ll be easy to say his piece and let Grantaire reply.

“If you’re sure.” He says anyway, just in case. He doesn’t think that Grantaire will say no, but…

“I am.” He replies leaning back on his hands, the blanket denting at his weight. Enjolras wants to take his hand and lace their fingers together like Jehan and Courfeyrac, but he won’t. He’s got to make himself clear, first.

“I wanted to say.” He beings, stops, swallows. The full force of Grantaire’s gaze is on him, pinning him with curiosity and an undercurrent of uneasiness. Irrationally, Enjolras wants to twist his fingers together and blush like some fairy tail maiden - a stereotype they should address. Instead, he has dry mouth and the first prickles of sweat on the back of his neck. “I wanted to say that I think you are a great friend, an amazing friend.”

This is not going how the thought it would at all, because the minute he says it Grantaire’s face gets curiously blank. He pushes on.

“And we’ve known each other a long time - a really long time - and it’d come to my attention that there are things I should say to you.”

“Look, Enjolras,” Grantaire starts, curls down over his eyes, mouth betraying nothing. “I get that you think you have to carry the weight of the world on your shoulders, but I can at least spare you this.”

The wording is a little off, he thinks, but he feels his lips twitch up before he can stop himself and says, “Really?” more than a little excited at the idea of he and Grantaire being on the same page when they so often aren’t.

“Yeah.” Grantaire says, a little mirthlessly, and when he looks up his eyes are carefully blank and his smile is brittle. “I can figure it out for myself. You don’t need to let me down easy or anything.”

He gives a sharp, two fingered salute and begins to stand, but  _no_ , because they still aren’t reading the same things, Grantaire obviously thinks he’s saying something he’s not saying, and they really need to learn to communicate.

“No wait!” He says, hand snapping out to grab Grantaire’s wrist, stopping him from standing. The artist falls back onto the blanket with a huff, his mouth already open to argue when Enjolras swings himself over to sit on Grantaire’s thighs.

The other man freezes immediately, eyes wide and lips parted just so, and Enjolras thinks  _shit_ and  _why can’t I ever say what I mean to say with you_ and  _you have the most amazing eyes_ and  _I want to be with you forever_  and  _I love you_.

And then  _shit_  again.

“I wasn’t going to ‘let you down easy’,” he huffs, and places a finger over Grantaire’s lips when he moves to speak. “No. Shush. I’m talking. I wasn’t going to let you down easy - I wasn’t going to let you down  _at all_. I was going to say that we’ve known each other for more than a decade, and I think it’s time I told you that I have very strong feelings for you.” His face is not red, he is not blushing, he is  _not_. “And I would like it if you would agree to enter a romantic relationship with me, because you told me once that you loved me, and I love you back, and it seems pointless to not love each other together.”

He finishes in a bit of a rush, his bottom lip finding its way between his teeth because Grantaire looks like he’s been hit in the side of the head with a brick, and this is not the reaction he was hoping for.

“Oh.” Grantaire says, just barely a sound at all. “Oh.”

Oh.

Oh  _what_.

“Grantaire what does that even mean.” He says, because what if he read this wrong - Grantaire tells people he loves them often enough for things like buying new paints or helping him get a book off the top shelf, what if he didn’t mean it then, what if he doesn’t want this, what if he doesn’t want  _Enjolras_ , what -

“You’re thinking too hard.” Whispers Grantaire, and Enjolras wants to ask him how he knows, even opens his mouth to do so - but then Grantaire’s face is very close and his lips are on Enjolras’ and his teeth flash out, just a bit, to nip at his bottom lip and Enjolras thinks  _Oh_.

It lasts exactly one heartbeat, and then Grantaire is parting their lips, much to Enjolras’ displeasure. He moves back just enough to rest their foreheads together, his image slightly fuzzy by proximity.

“It means yes. I know you like that verbalized - I’m saying yes.”  _I’m saying I love you_. Enjolras’ ears turn red at the other man’s voice in his mind.

“Oh. Okay. Yes.” He replies, swallowing and looking away. Grantaire huffs out laughter as Enjolras scoots off of him, sitting back down on the blanket, closer than the last time. Their fingers overlap at the tips.

He coughs. “What - what were you going to say?”

“What?”

“Before - before.” He waves a hand at the air, and Grantaire arches an eyebrow at him and then snaps into a more upright position.

“Oh! Yes, I was going to say, ah - “ And now Grantaire is red, from ears to collar bones, and Enjolras watches in fascination, as his cheeks burn and he fumbles around in his pockets. “I have something for you. Some _things_ , really, but I wasn’t, I mean - the second one isn’t a thing, a physical thing, but it wasn’t - Ah!”

He turns toward Enjolras more fully, cradling something in his palms that the blond can’t see. The artist looks bashful now, and less red, and he looks up at Enjolras through his eyelashes and his bangs.

“I got this before the whole quest-thing, and I didn’t really know what it was for, but I kept it on me because I had a  _feeling_ -feeling, you know?” Enjolras does know, sort of, so he nods along. “It’s kinda a tradition to give a gift at the beginning of a new season, and I thought this would be suitable.”

His fingers uncurl, revealing a shining, smooth black stone encased in a fine net of gold and silver. A tiny cluster of gems half the size of shirt buttons sits at the top of the casing where the chain grows out of the net, a ruby, an emerald, and two different colored blue stones.

“I know you don’t like flash.” Grantaire murmurs, looking at the necklace in his hands. “I know how you feel about excessive wealth. It should be noted then, that I made this myself,” unsurprising, considering how fine it is, even Enjolras knows that nothing rivals non-human craftsmanship, “and all of the materials came from a source that had, genuinely, more than their fare share.”

 _That_  gets Enjolras’ eyes off the artwork in Grantaire’s hands. “You didn’t.” He whispers, eyes wide. Grantaire looks smug and a little bashful. Enjolras can remember the paper, a month or so ago, a report of the King’s royal treasury being broken into and ravaged. Several thousand gold pieces, a handful of small chests containing priceless gems, and an antique painting of the King defaced. Apparently the vandal had scratched critiques of the painting into the heavy oil, as well as adding a very comical mustache, monocle and tiny hat.

A message had been painted on the wall as well -  _Remember your friends, because we remember you_. It had been very sinister and Enjolras had thrown another knife - wood handle, curved blade, serrated - right into his picture of the King in a celebratory gesture for the unknown burglar.

“You did!” He says, gripping Grantaire’s hands and the necklace all at once, gleeful. Grantaire’s smile turns sweet, and he shrugs noncommittally.

“I thought you might like it a little more if it came from somewhere less than conventional, even if you wouldn’t wear it.” He mumbles, and Enjolras beams at him.

“Help me put it on?” He asks, turning so that Grantaire can clasp it at the back of his neck. The stone settles in the vee of his collar bones, the metal net barely rising above the surface of the stone the work is so thin and fine. He turns around after Grantaire finishes and pats his shoulders. The look on the artists face is warm and soft, and Enjolras’ feels his chest heat.

Actually…

The tips of his fingers come up to touch the stone, the smooth surface startling him. “It’s warm.” He says, looking from the it to Grantaire’s eyes. He blushes again, looking away.

The artist clears his throat and begins. “It’s a stone from the heart of a Ley Point. When magic is done around it it absorbs part of the energy the magic emits. When other stones are around it, they share and reflect the power back. The more magic done around a Ley Point, the more it reflects back.”

“Amazing.” Enjolras whispers. “Is there a limit to how much it holds?”

“Not as far as I know.” Grantaire grins.

“And it’s warm because…?”

“Because I was carrying it around while working a lot magic when we were trying to fix Feuilly.”

Enjolras throat gets tight, and his fingers close around the gem. It pulses heat in his hand, almost like a -

“And since I was leaking magic everywhere, and I sort of forgot to take it off my person…” he shrugs a little bit, “it matched up to me and mine. There’s a link.” He draws a line between his heart and the stone. “So you’ll always know that I’m okay. And  _I_  will always be able to find you.”

There’s something shifting in his bones, his whole world tilting on its axis, the breath in his lungs feeling too warm and too cold and oh, oh -

“Enjolras?” Grantaire’s hands are cradling his face, searching his eyes worriedly, and his own hands come up to keep them there.

“Sorry, sorry.” He laughs, breathless, but Grantaire still looks worried. “It’s just a lot, I mean - “

“Too much?” Grantaire whispers, stricken. Enjolras shakes his head vigorously.

“No! No, It’s just - twenty minutes ago I wasn’t sure if you would even agree to be in a relationship with me and now…” He touches the stone hanging around his neck, feeling it beating against his fingers. His other hand reaches out to touch Grantaire’s chest, finding the twin sensation easily. “Now I’m carrying your heart around my neck.”

“Yeah.” Grantaire laughs. “It’s more romantic when you say it like that. I didn’t know you had it in you.”

There aren’t any words he can find that don’t sound childish, so he leans forward and plants a swift kiss on Grantaire’s smiling lips. The artist flushes again, stopping before he gets anything out, and looks at Enjolras like he’s just said the world was square.

“You said there was something else you wanted to give me?” He asks, hoping to get Grantaire back on track. He doesn’t think there’s anything that could possibly top  _Grantaire’s heart around his neck_ , but he might’ve had a plan, and Enjolras doesn’t want to derail that.

“Oh, right. Yeah - it’s not a thing, really, a physical thing, but it’s a big deal, I guess - it could be a big deal, it’s only a big deal if you want it to be. But I thought, why not, I already stole from the King for you, this isn’t such a big deal - no chance of getting caught at least, but you can hold the stone, so - “

“Grantaire.” He interrupts gently, and Grantaire looks sheepish, but takes a deep breath and settles himself. Carefully, almost reverently, he takes Enjolras’ hands in his and laces their fingers together, resting them on their bumping knees. He has callouses and pencil smudges on his fingers. There are a dozen or more thin, silver-ish scars on his knuckles and the backs of his hands, which are human normal but still fascinating.

He wants to learn every story, memorize every line and callous. He wants to watch Grantaire paint, and draw, and fence - he wants to watch him fumbling over whittling, he wants to watch him dance, he wants to memorize every laugh and sigh.

He wants to wake up beside him for the rest of his life, and it’s exhilarating and terrifying. There’s no one he’d rather face it with.

Across from him Grantaire takes a deep breath, looks Enjolras in the eye, and smiles tentatively.

“I want to tell you my true name.”

**Author's Note:**

> As ever, this was a prompt fill for the absolutely radiant [lapieuvrebleue](http://lapieuvrebleue.tumblr.com/). The Prequel can be found [here](http://morethanthedark.tumblr.com/post/52105701753/hello-if-i-can-ask-for-a-prompt-then-what-about-les), Part One is [here](http://morethanthedark.tumblr.com/post/65631929227/like-fire-and-powder) and Part Two is [here](http://morethanthedark.tumblr.com/post/66517585695/as-they-kiss-consume), and Part Three is [here](http://morethanthedark.tumblr.com/post/68046058681/these-violent-delights-have-violent-ends). I have a love-hate relationship with this piece. There are a lot of parts I like, and a lot of parts I feel are clunky, but when I tried to remove them or rewrite them they didn't sound right? I don't know. I'm also sad that it's the end, so :/ Either way, I hope you like it, as it was fun to write. I am also terribly sorry about it being so late! I wanted it to be out last Friday, but editing took forever. 
> 
> Also! There is now poetry for this, written by the outrageously perfect [demonsonthemoon](http://demonsonthemoon.tumblr.com/). [Go read it and love zir](http://demonsonthemoon.tumblr.com/post/67565650087/sea-salt)!
> 
> Hit me up on [tumblr](http://morethanthedark.tumblr.com/) sometime!


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